I-2
558 Words
IF HOME IS WHERE THE heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as “Isobar” to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, long way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for six tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of Lunar III—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station, teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
“Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!” thought Isobar, “Locked up in an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl!” Sunlight? Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented, reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.
Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine existence.
“A pain!” declared Isobar Jones. “That’s what it is; a pain in the stummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?”
It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome’s transmission turret. He said, “Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?”
“Done,” said Isobar. “I was just gettin’ the sheets together for you.”
“O.Q. But just bring it. Nothing else.”
Isobar bridled.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Oh, no? Well, I’m talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of yours, sonny boy. Don’t bring that bag-full of noise up here with you.”
Isobar said defiantly, “It ain’t a doodlesack. It’s a bagpipe. And I guess I can play it if I want to—”
“Not,” said Sparks emphatically, “in my cubby! I’ve got sensitive eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I’ve got to get the report rolling quick today. Big doings up here.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Well, it’s Roberts and Brown—”
“What about ‘em?”
“They’ve gone Outside to make foundation repairs.”
“Lucky stiffs!” commented Isobar ruefully.
“Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well, scoot along. I’m on the ether in four point sixteen minutes.”
“Be right up,” promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.
He didn’t leave Sparks’ turret after the sheets were delivered. Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally turned to him in sheer exasperation.
“Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what’s the trouble? Bugs in your britches?”
Isobar said, “H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe you wouldn’t mind if I—well—er—”
“I get it!” Sparks grinned. “Want to play peekaboo while the contact’s open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!”
He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating with painstaking clarity:
“Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna’s call. Can you hear me, Luna? Can you hear—?”
“I can not only hear you,” snorted Riley, “I can see you and smell you, as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You’re lousing up the earth!”
The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of displeasure.
“Oh, it’s you? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?”
“Sure,” said Riley agreeably. “I’m a scream. Four-alarm Riley, the cosmic comedian—didn’t you know? Flick on your dictacoder, oyster-puss; here’s the weather report.” He read it. ”’Weather forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21—’”
“Ask him,” whispered Isobar eagerly. “Sparks, don’t forget to ask him!”
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- Writer
