Closer
the Moon
(dedicated to Dara Rei Onishi) Donald
C. Wood
Well, life
has thrown me
for yet another loop. Like a punch in
the face came the good and the bad, gripped tightly in the same fist. It all started with a telegram.
Can you believe they still exist in this day
and age? Rest assured, most of you won’t
be receiving one (assuming you even know what they are) because the
Federal
Parcel Service only keeps those around for old sticks in the mud like
myself. Oh, I do have a Personal
Communication System at home, and it’s got one of those Videphones in
it, but I’ve
never used it – not even once. I’ve
always refused to. No matter what
anyone says, no amount of technology can replace the experience of
talking face
to face with someone. It can’t even
hold a candle to it. I’ve never settled
for those cheap imitations. It’s the
same with books – you know, those things with “pages” and words printed
on
them. I have books, not a Litpad. I swore long ago that I’d never use
one. When something new comes out I
find a way to get my hands on a printed copy – in whatever form. Digitized letters on a screen just don’t do
it for me. And there’s no way I’ll ever
get one of those newfangled Holocoms.
The last thing I want to do at home is be visited by a 3D
life-sized
image of someone on another planet eons away.
That would likely just give me a heart attack.
No, I’m afraid that the old Digimemo is about as far as I’ll
go. But alas, mine developed some kind
of bug a few years ago, and even though some friendly Federal gentlemen
came out
and supposedly fixed it – twice – it still doesn’t work.
See what you get for relying too much on
high technology?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes – I was
going to explain my
experience with good, bad, and the moon.
The telegram arrived while I was watering my plants on the
veranda. Observant readers may have
guessed that I
would have genuine, non-genetically engineered flora, and they would be
correct
– all of my plants are of the original species: a fact that may easily
be
verified by a quick DNA scan or a visit to the Federal Botanical
Research
Institute in New Atlantis. As soon as
the telegram came I tore it open (quaint, yes?) and read the contents. It was an invitation to the Collins High
School centennial celebration. I hadn’t
been to Mare Tranquillitatis in six years, but I reasoned it was time
for a
return – you know I’m not so young anymore.
I reserved a spot on a transport for the next morning, packed my
bags,
and arranged for a neighbor to see to my plants. Riding
the eltram is always fun.
Of course most people prefer their own vehicles, but with all
that
business of charging cells and refilling nitrogen tanks, what’s the
point,
anyway? You don’t have to fool with
that if you take the el. You can sit
back and relax while watching the cityscape zip by, and they even serve
you
drinks. What I like best about it is
that it runs through the old section, where you can still find brick
buildings
with graceful, old-fashioned arches and solid, heavy foundations – very
different from everything they put up today.
Fortunately I was able to get a
window seat in one of the newest, fastest transports – the YX-M12
Sub-Space
Hypertrans. These I do like – while I’ll
take the old eltram over a new speeder any day, when I leave Mother
Earth
swiftness and safety take precedence over my carefully cultivated (and
highly
prized) eccentricities. I leaned back,
and had dozed for only a few minutes when the ship began to move
forward. It slid smoothly along the
launchway until
the rocket-arm caught it and catapulted us out of the terminal. I only barely felt the main thrusters fire,
and in a matter of minutes we had broken free of the planet’s
atmosphere. Those new transports have the
best
gravity-buffers and pressure equalizers available – you can’t feel a
thing. As soon as we had achieved a steady
orbit I
spotted Earth Station One floating freely in the blackness of space. It was just as it used to be.
This I had expected, for only a month or two
earlier a friend had come to see me on his way back home from a
five-year stint
on ES1, and had given me a far more detailed run-down of the place than
I had
really needed. But the chance to host
an old buddy doesn’t come along just any day, and I love to show off my
plants. We docked at one of the ports
for a total of about twenty minutes. A
few passengers got off and a few others took their places, but the
woman next
to me was sound asleep. I didn’t care
whether she had intended to disembark or not – avoiding hassles was all
I cared
about – so I didn’t try to wake her. At
the next port was docked a vessel similar to ours, but it had no
windows for
passengers and it was emblazoned with a big Federal seal near the
cockpit. Written along the side were the
words “MARS
CARGO EXPRESS.” Clearly, I thought, the
government was spending far too much of our tax credits on the new Mars
base if
they needed to use ships like that one to haul supplies.
Wasn’t it supposed to have been
self-sufficient by now? Heck, all of
the moon settlements are, and it’s just a big dead rock.
And then there’s that Titan base – but don’t
get me started on that one.
The cabin full again with
passengers, we backed away from the port just as soon as the docking
clamps had
released and I watched the station on the screen. First
it filled the field of view and then it fell away, growing
smaller. We turned and I lost sight of
ES1, but had an excellent view of Africa out my window.
I almost imagined I could spot the glimmer
of all those solar arrays they recently set up in eastern Namibia. But my view of our earliest bipedal
ancestors’ homeland was soon lost as we pulled further away from the
glimmering
stratosphere and began the second and last leg of our journey. The ship slid more smoothly through space
than it had on our approach to ES1, and it and Mother Earth both
shifted into
our blind spot, and I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Since I had been a high school teacher, and mainly in charge of
seniors, my students had always been nearly fully-grown.
Of course they changed with time, and seeing
them later was always nice, but it was never hard to figure out who was
who
even when meeting up with them 10 or 20 years later.
Colleagues never changed that much, either.
The main thing that happened to most
everyone, since we were on the moon, was that their bodies would
invariably
grow in height. If you’ve never spent
much time there, then you may not realize that even though gravity
levels in
the cities are kept fairly close to that of Earth, there still is a
difference. They’ve done some studies
on that, and most seem to suspect that the lower mass of the moon might
play a
greater role than the artificial gravity.
But anyway, I sat there and thought about seeing them again, and
wondered if many students would come at all.
I must have dozed a few minutes,
because soon a steward startled me by offering some coffee – made from
beans
grown at the Russian agricultural station outside Serenity City. I gladly accepted, and drank it with natural
lunar sugar. Within ten or fifteen
minutes they were announcing our arrival at the moon.
I still saw nothing out my window except stars, but soon the
screen came on and there she was – as beautiful as ever.
She grew larger on the cabin screen, and
then seemed to coyly tilt away from us as we approached the surface
from an
increasingly shallower angle. Blackness
to the sides and gray below: that’s what it’s like up there, but along
the
horizon line I saw the golden tinge you sometimes get when the light
from the
sun hits the moon just right. Don’t ask
me what causes it – I really don’t know.
I looked down from my window and found that we were passing
right over
Tycho. Memories of all the times I went
there with students came back to me – those field trip were great fun,
and
Tycho Station wasn’t really such a bad place as it was always made out
to
be. It was just old. But
then I spotted it – that old station had
grown at least ten times in size since I was last there!
Gone was the creaky little modular outpost,
replaced by one big brightly lit angular structure that seemed to
compete with
the crater itself for attention – something like Frank Lloyd Wright
gone
mad. And it contrasted sharply with
magnificent Tycho – sharp corners jutted out this way and that, and
part of it
even obscured a small section of the rim.
The star-like effect of the rays was all but ruined by the
presence of
the new monstrosity. I had been happy
about the establishment of the original outpost all those years ago,
but the
new one had no appeal for me. I sadly
watched it pass by and then fade into the distance as we made our way
to the
lunar capital.
Crater upon crater slipped by
beneath. I gazed once in a while at the
rough terrain, anticipating the many meetings with former colleagues
and
students I hadn’t seen in far too long.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even think to check the cabin
monitor
until I had felt the main thrusters shut down and the reverse boosters
fire. I looked up and saw Tranquility
City spread out before me, welcoming me back again.
It was a little larger, and a little brighter, than before, but
not so different. A few other vessels
crossed our path as we glided towards the main space traffic terminal. As we gradually descended I spotted
Armstrong Park, with the memorial marking the exact location of the
Apollo 11
landing site. Of course, I was looking
down through the transparent dome, and since the ground is now covered
by grass
it certainly doesn’t have the same look as it did when Armstrong and
Aldrin
took their historic steps there over two centuries earlier. At least most of the other Apollo sites are
still pretty much as they always were.
But Armstrong Park isn’t a bad place.
It’s one of the nicest on the moon – if you want something more
like
Mother Earth.
I have to admit, even though I’m
no great fan of all the technological leaps and bounds the Federation
seems to
be making from day to day, I appreciated the fact that introducing the
YX-M12s
to the fleet had cut the moon trip down from nearly two and a half
hours to a
mere 32 minutes – not counting the layover at ES1.
Roger was waiting for me when I walked through the gate –
sitting
there nonchalantly in one of the lounges along the promenade, looking
like he
had nothing to do in the world. “There
you are, old man,” he said. Roger’s a
little younger then I am, although he had retired first – taken it
early
despite the cut in pension. Being
unable to contain his insatiable appetite for seeing other worlds,
Roger had
shipped out practically the next day for Mars.
But I was glad to see him. I
slapped him on the shoulder and asked how life was on the red planet. “Fine,” he said, if you like freezing your
ass off and eating the same old crap every single day!”
Turns out, as I had suspected, the truth
about that place differs from the official Federation line – but I
won’t go
into that here. We walked together to
the tramline. It turned out that he had
just arrived an hour earlier – straight from Mars.
I asked him if he were going back, to which he replied,
succinctly,
“No.”
Roger said that he had had enough
of Mars, and that he was in need of something totally new – farther
from Earth,
this time. And just when I thought –
hoped – he had finally come around and seen the light, he started
talking about
Cassini’s division and…you guessed it…the Titan base.
The fool had his heart completely set on going.
I said he was too old, but that didn’t work:
he simply said, “You’ve come back to the moon, haven’t you.” I said that the moon is close, but he
countered again. “And as those deep
space transports get faster,” he said, “Titan just gets closer.” I wasn’t ready to give up, so I tried one
last tactic – accusing him of helping to encourage the Federation to
step-up
its plundering of the moon’s resources; all of those deep space vessels
would
be dry-docked without lunar thorium for their fusion reactors. Stepping on the bandwagon only encourages
them, I said. And it seemed that I had
finally gotten through, because he said, “yeah, there is that. Too much pressure on the mining facilities
does increase the chances of another accident.
Poor Jexia.” This caught me by
surprise. I knew, of course, whom Jexia
was – she had taken my position at the school six years earlier. We had exchanged letters (yes – letters) for
a couple of years after my return to Earth, so I felt that I knew her
relatively well. After all, the things
people write in a letter are different from what they say in person –
and
certainly different from what they say over an intercom.
I stopped in my tracks and turned to face
Roger. I think I stuttered a couple of
times as I told him that I hadn’t heard from Jexia in about three years. I was dreading his next words even as I
spoke, wondering in the back of my mind whether I might be able to
negate the
moment and reverse the course of time with just the right phrase – like
some
sort of magic spell. But he spoke,
saying, “You mean…you never heard what happened?” The
surprise on his face was as hard to miss as that ghastly new
Tycho station.
Now, I don’t need to tell you what
it means when someone starts a sentence with a phrase like that. It can only mean one thing.
“Well,” he began anew, scratching his head
and looking downward as if struggling to compose a poem, “you know she
was from
one of those mining settlements out there near Copernicus.” I said I already knew that, and urged him to
continue, although I didn’t fully want him to.
“I heard that she went back home for a while during the mid-year
break,
and that…you know – when the thorium in one area is depleted they
usually move
the entire settlement.” Again, I told
him that I already knew that. Frankly,
I was getting a little impatient. “Well,”
he started again,” they had just moved to a new spot, and no one knew
that some
mining had already been done there – probably illegal, years before –
and they
just happened to set up their living module over a sinkhole. Fortunately she was the only one home when
it collapsed, but…she was trapped in the rubble and asphyxiated before
they
could get her out. She died.”
My legs nearly gave way, and I had to lean
on his shoulder to stay upright. “I can’t
believe I knew about it and you didn’t,” he said, leading me to a chair
in one
of the lounges. “Even on Mars, I heard
about it,” he continued, and I think he apologized for not letting me
know. I understood – I assigned no
blame to him – he had simply assumed that I had heard.
Sitting in the chair, I tried to
make sense of what he had said, but it just didn’t register. Since so much time had passed, the period
for mourning was long over – this I knew.
But down inside I felt that I had to express my sense of loss,
even
though I hadn’t exactly been that close to her. The
thought that she was doing well in the school and enjoying
her job and life had been, I suddenly realized, important to me. In my retirement, I wanted – needed – to
know that there was continuity at the school where I had given so much
of my
time and energy…much of my life, actually.
That the continuity I had imagined involved people with whom I
had been
in direct contact – that I was at least in a small way connected to the
place –
had after all been comforting. It had
allowed me to stay away but not feel so distant. But
then to learn that the line of succession had been broken in
that way, and that the bright, young girl – so radiant – had
disappeared many
months earlier shook me to the very core.
I felt that I should contact her family and express my
condolences, but
what would they say? How would they feel? No doubt they had been seeking closure for
quite some time, but it was all new to me.
The wounds were fresh. There
could be no closure in my case, I knew, so soon. And
yet, I also felt that it was a bit ridiculous of me to make a
big deal about her death, for in truth I was of little consequence in
her life –
it could just have easily been any other teacher she had replaced, and
I could
just as easily have had any other successor.
These thoughts span round and
round in my head, and all the while I searched my mind for a clear
image of her
face, but all I could find were shadowy reflections of her self in
there, as I
had seen her. Although I could remember
how I felt when we first met, I could not recall exactly how she looked. Then I wondered, what had she really meant
to me? Finally I heard Roger’s voice
again. He was asking a question, but I
couldn’t understand him. I managed to
say something – I think it was the predictable response: something to
the
effect that I couldn’t believe it was true.
“It’s true,” he said, suggesting I check the data on his Litpad. As you might guess, I refused.
I’m sworn to protect my virtue, you
know. But I did suspect in a way that
written records might be necessary for letting the truth sink in. It just didn’t feel right to accept Roger’s
report as fact without some verification – however reliable a friend he
really
was. The pad he had spoken of was in
his hand, just within my grasp, but I did not want to break my promise
to
myself – my promise to avoid all those newfangled contraptions everyone
feels
are so critical to their very existence.
But I was in need of the written word – I had to have it. Roger moved his hand closer to me, and mine
rose instinctively to meet his, and then I felt the cold metal case of
the
device on my fingers, and they gripped it gingerly.
Roger pushed a few buttons on the side, scrolling down file
after
file of data. There must have been an
entire library of materials in there, and it went by and went by until
what I
had needed – but not wanted – to see appeared in the screen. It was Jexia’s obituary.
So it was true. She was gone. The words on the pad’s screen cut through me
as deeply as had
those from his mouth. And I felt like a
fool. I had been totally in the dark,
even just down on Earth. And he had
heard the news on Mars. On top of that,
it took a piece of technology I had rejected all my life – and blamed
for the
demise of the printed book – to bring the truth. What
the hell kinds of choices had I been making all these
years, I asked myself a few times. And
then came the greatest question of all: had I always been alone, with
my plants,
my antiquated tools, and my carefully-crafted eccentricities only
because I had
chosen to reject the new and take the leap into the twenty-third
century? These ideas gnawed at me until I
heard a new
voice. It was the sweetest I had ever
known – new but strangely familiar. I
looked up, and saw this girl standing there.
She was shining like an angel, looking straight at me, and her
face was
beaming, and I knew I had seen her somewhere but I thought that she
couldn’t
have been a student of mine. And yet
she kept looking at me, and her face told the whole story of how I had
been her
favorite teacher, and how I had inspired her so, and then her words
began to do
the same, and I stood, and we talked, and it took me far, far away from
the
sadness I had felt over Roger’s news.
Later, I did attend the anniversary celebration at the school,
and met up with a few old coworkers and some more former students, but
nothing
that happened there compared to what I had experienced at Port
Tranquility, and
no face stuck in my mind like that of the girl who had been so happy to
see me. As I watched Tranquility City
speed by
beneath, I thought about her, and about Jexia, and I wondered what I
was going
to do about my communications, and I wrestled with the problem of what
I ought
to do about…change.