The Starting Line

THE STORY OF the first lunar expedition has been written so many times

that some people will doubt if there is anything fresh to be said about

it. Yet all the official reports and eyewitness accounts, the

on-the-spot recordings and broadcasts never, in my opinion, gave the

full picture.

They said a great deal about the discoveries that were made but very

little about the men who made them.

As captain of the Endeavour and thus commander of the British party, I

was able to observe a good many things you will not find in the history

books, and some though not all of them can now be told. One day, I

hope, my opposite numbers on the Goddard and the Ziolkovslci will give

their points of view. But as Commander Vandenburg is still on Mars and

Commander Krasnin is somewhere inside the orbit of Venus, it looks as

if we will have to wait a few more years for their memoirs.

Confession, it is said, is good for the soul. I shall certainly feel

much happier when I have told the true story behind the timing of the

first lunar flight, about which there has always been a good deal of

mystery.

As everyone knows, the American, Russian, and British ships were

assembled in the orbit of Space Station Three, five hundred miles above

the Earth, from components flown up by relays of freight rockets.

Though all the parts had been prefabricated, the assembly and testing

of the ships took over two years, by which time a great many people who

did not realize the complexity of the task were beginning to get

slightly impatient. They had seen dozens of photos and telecasts of

the three ships floating there in space beside Station Three,

apparently quite complete and ready to pull away from Earth at a

moment's notice. What the pictures didn't show was the careful and

tedious work still in progress as thousands of pipes, wires, motors,

and instruments were fitted and subjected to every conceivable test.

There was no definite target date for departure;

since the moon is always at approximately the same distance, you can

leave for it at almost any time you like once you are ready. It makes

practically no difference, from the point of view of fuel consumption,

if you blast off at full moon or new moon or at any time in between. We

were very careful to make no predictions about blast-off, though

everyone was always trying to get us to fix the time. So many things

can go wrong in a spaceship, and we were not going to say good-by to

Earth until we were ready down to the last detail.

I shall always remember the last commanders' conference, aboard the

space station, when we all announced that we were ready. Since it was

a co-operative venture, each party special ising in some particular

task, it had been agreed that we should all make our landings within

the same twenty-four-hour period, on the preselected site in the Mare

Imbrium. The details of the journey, however, had been left to the

individual commanders, presumably in the hope that we would not copy

each other's mistakes.

"I'll be ready," said Commander Vandenburg, "to make my first dummy

take-off at 0900 tomorrow. What about you, gentlemen? Shall we ask

Earth Control to stand by for all three of us?"

"That's O.K. by me," said Krasnin, who could never be convinced that

his American slang was twenty years out of date.

I nodded my agreement. It was true that one bank of fuel gauges was

still misbehaving, but that didn't really matter; they would be fixed

by the time the tanks were filled.

The dummy run consisted of an exact replica of a real blast-off, with

everyone carrying out the job he would do when the time came for the

genuine thing. We had practiced, of course, in mock-ups down on Earth,

but this was a perfect imitation of what would happen to us when we

finally took off for the moon. All that was missing was the roar of

the motors that would tell us that the voyage had begun.

We did six complete imitations of blast-off, took the ships to pieces

to eliminate anything that hadn't behaved perfectly, then did six more.

The Endeavour, the Goddard, and the Ziolkovsk~ were all in the same

state of serviceability. There now only remained the job of fueling

up, and we would be ready to leave.

The suspense of those last few hours is not something I would care to

go through again. The eyes of the world were upon us; departure time

had now been set, with an uncertainty of only a few hours. All the

final tests had been made, and we were convinced that our ships were as

ready as humanly possible.

It was then that I had an urgent and secret personal radio call from a

very high official indeed, and a suggestion was made which had so much

authority behind it that there was little point in pretending that it

wasn't an order. The first flight to the moon, I was reminded, was a

co-operative venture but think of the prestige if we got there first.

It need only be by a couple of hours.... I was shocked at the

suggestion, and said so. By this time Vandenburg and Krasnin were good

friends of mine, and we were all in this together. I made every excuse

I could and said that since our flight paths had already been computed

there wasn't anything that could be done about it. Each ship was

making the journey by the most economical route, to conserve fuel. If

we started together, we should arrive together within seconds.

Unfortunately, someone had thought of the answer to that. Our three

ships, fueled up and with their crews standing by, would be circling

Earth in a state of complete readiness for several hours before they

actually pulled away from their satellite orbits and headed out to the

moon. At our five-hundred-mile altitude, we took ninety-five minutes

to make one circuit of the Earth, and only once every revolution would

the moment be ripe to begin the voyage. If we could jump the gun by

one revolution, the others would have to wait that ninety-five minutes

before they could follow. And so they would land on the moon

ninety-five minutes behind us.... I won't go into the arguments, and

I'm still a little ashamed that I yielded and agreed to deceive my two

colleagues. We were in the shadow of Earth, in momentary eclipse, when

the carefully calculated moment came. Vandenburg and Krasnin, honest

fellows, thought I was going to make one more round trip with them

before we all set off together. I have seldom felt a bigger heel in my

life than when I pressed the firing key and felt the sudden thrust of

the motors as they swept me away from my mother world.

For the next ten minutes we had no time for anything but our

instruments, as we checked to see that the Endeavour was forging ahead

along her precomputed orbit. Almost at the moment that we finally

escaped from Earth and could cut the motors, we burst out of shadow

into the full blaze of the sun. There would be no more night until we

reached the moon, after five days of effortless and silent coasting

through space.

Already Space Station Three and the two other ships must be a thousand

miles behind. In eighty-five more minutes Vandenburg and Krasnin would

be back at the correct starting point and could take off after me, as

we had all planned. But they could never overcome my lead, and I hoped

they wouldn't be too mad at me when we met again on the moon.

I switched on the rear camera and looked back at the distant gleam of

the space station, just emerging from the shadow of Earth. It was some

moments before I realized that the Goddard and the Ziolkovski weren't

still floating beside it where I'd left them.... No; they were just

half a mile away, neatly matching my velocity. I stared at them in

utter disbelief for a second, before I realized that every one of us

had had the same idea.

"Why, you pair of double-crossers!" I gasped. Then I began to laugh

so much that it was several minutes before I dared call up a very

worried Earth Control and tell them that everything had gone according

to plan though in no case was it the plan that had been originally

announced.... We were all very sheepish when we radioed each other to

exchange mutual congratulations. Yet at the same time, I think

everyone was secretly pleased that it had turned out this way. For the

rest of the trip, we were never more than a few miles apart, and the

actual landing maneuvers were so well synchronised that our three

braking jets hit the moon simultaneously.

Well, almost simultaneously. I might make something of the fact that

the recorder tape shows I touched down two fifths of a second ahead of

Krasnin. But I'd better not, for Vandenburg was precisely the same

amount ahead of me.

On a quarter-of-a-million-mile trip, I think you could call that a

photo finish.... Robin Hood, F R S

We had landed early in the dawn of the long lunar day, and the slanting

shadows lay all around us, extending for miles across the plain. They

would slowly shorten as the sun rose higher in the sky, until at noon

they would almost vanish but noon was still five days away, as we

measured time on Earth, and nightfall was seven days later still. We

had almost two weeks of daylight ahead of us before the sun set and the

bluely gleaming Earth became the mistress of the sky.

There was little time for exploration during those first hectic days.

We had to unload the ships, grow accustomed to the alien conditions

surrounding us, learn to handle our electrically powered tractors and

scooters, and erect the igloos that would serve as homes, offices, and

labs until the time came to leave. At a pinch, we could live in the

spaceships, but it would be excessively uncomfortable and cramped. The

igloos were not exactly commodious, but they were luxury after five

days in space. Made of tough, flexible plastic, they were blown up

like balloons, and their interiors were then partitioned into separate

rooms. Air locks allowed access to the outer world, and a good deal of

plumbing linked to the ships' air-purification plants kept the

atmosphere breathable. Needless to say, the American igloo was the

biggest one, and had come complete with everything, including the

kitchen sink not to mention a washing machine, which we and the

Russians were always borrowing.

It was late in the "afternoon" about ten days after we had landed

before we were properly organized and could think about serious

scientific work. The first parties made nervous little forays out into

the wilderness around the base, familia rising themselves with the

territory. Of course, we already possessed minutely detailed maps and

photographs of the region in which we had landed, but it was surprising

how misleading they could sometimes be. What had been marked as a

small hill on a chart often looked like a mountain to a man toiling

along in a space suit, and apparently smooth plains were often covered

knee-deep with dust, which made progress extremely slow and tedious.

These were minor difficulties, however, and the low gravity which gave

all objects only a sixth of their terrestrial weight compensated for

much.

As the scientists began to accumulate their results and specimens, the

radio and TV circuits with Earth became busier and busier, until they

were in continuous operation. We were taking no chances; even if we

didn't get home, the knowledge we were gathering would do so.

The first of the automatic supply rockets landed two days before

sunset, precisely according to plan. We saw its braking jets flame

briefly against the stars, then blast again a few seconds before

touchdown. The actual landing was hidden from us, since for safety

reasons the dropping ground was three miles from the base. And on the

moon, three miles is well over the curve of the horizon.

When we got to the robot, it was standing slightly askew on its tripod

shock absorbers, but in perfect condition. So was everything aboard

it, from instruments to food. We carried the stores back to base in

triumph, and had a celebration that was really rather overdue. The men

had been working too hard, and could do with some relaxation.

It was quite a party; the high light, I think, was Commander Krasnin

trying to do a Cossack dance in a space suit. Then we turned our minds

to competitive sports, but found that, for obvious reasons, outdoor

activities were somewhat restricted. Games like croquet or bowls would

have been practical had we had the equipment; but cricket and football

were definitely out. In that gravity, even a football would go half a

mile if it were given a good kick and a cricket ball would never be

seen again.

Professor Trevor Williams was the first person to think of a practical

lunar sport. He was our astronomer, and also one of the youngest men

ever to be made a Fellow of the Royal Society, being only thirty when

this ultimate accolade was conferred upon him. His work on methods of

interplanetary navigation had made him world famous; less well known,

however, was his skill as a toxophilite. For two years in succession

he had been archery champion for Wales. I was not surprised,

therefore, when I discovered him shooting at a target propped up on a

pile of lunar slag.

The bow was a curious one, strung with steel control wire and shaped

from a laminated plastic bar. I wondered where Trevor had got hold of

it, then remembered that the robot freight rocket had now been

cannibalised and bits of it were appearing in all sorts of unexpected

places. The arrows, however, were the really interesting feature. To

give them stability on the airless moon, where, of course, feathers

would be useless, Trevor had managed to rifle them. There was a little

gadget on the bow that set them spinning, like bullets, when they were

fired, so that they kept on course when they left the bow.

Even with this rather makeshift equipment, it was possible to shoot a

mile if one wished to.

However, Trevor didn't want to waste arrows, which were not easy to

make; he was more interested in seeing the sort of accuracy he could

get. It was uncanny to watch the almost flat trajectory of the arrows:

they seemed to be traveling parallel with the ground. If he wasn't

careful, someone warned Trevor, his arrows might become lunar

satellites and would hit him in the back when they completed their

orbit.

The second supply rocket arrived the next day, but this time things

didn't go according to plan. It made a perfect touchdown, but

unfortunately the radar-controlled automatic pilot made one of those

mistakes that such simpleminded machines delight in doing. It spotted

the only really unclimbable hill in the neighborhood, locked its beam

onto the summit of it, and settled down there like an eagle descending

upon its mountain eerie.

Our badly needed supplies were five hundred feet above our heads, and

in a few hours night would be falling. What was to be done?

About fifteen people made the same suggestion at once, and for the next

few minutes there was a great scurrying about as we rounded up all the

nylon line on the base. Soon there was more than a thousand yards of

it coiled in neat loops at Trevor's feet while we all waited

expectantly. He tied one end to his arrow, drew the bow, and aimed it

experimentally straight toward the stars.

The arrow rose a little more than half the height of the cliff; then

the weight of the line pulled it back.

"Sorry," said Trevor.

"I just can't make it. And don't forget we'd have to send up some kind

of grapnel as well, if we want the end to stay up there."

There was much gloom for the next few minutes, as we watched the coils

of line fall slowly back from the sky. The situation was really

somewhat absurd. In our ships we had enough energy to carry us a

quarter of a million miles from the moon yet we were baffled by a puny

little cliff If we had time, we could probably find a way up to the top

from the other side of the hill, but that would mean traveling several

miles.

It would be dangerous, and might well be impossible, during the few

hours of daylight that were left.

Scientists were never baffled for long, and too many ingenious

(sometimes over ingenious minds were working on the problem for it to

remain unresolved. But this time it was a little more difficult, and

only three people got the answer simultaneously. Trevor thought it

over, then said noncommittally, "Well, it's worth trying."

The preparations took a little while, and we were all watching

anxiously as the rays of the sinking sun crept higher and higher up the

sheer cliff looming above us. Even if Trevor could get a line and

grapnel up there, I thought to myself, it would not be easy making the

ascent while encumbered with a space suit. I have no head for heights,

and was glad that several mountaineering enthusiasts had already

volunteered for the job.

At last everything was ready. The line had been carefully arranged so

that it would lift from the ground with the mini mum of hindrance. A

light grapnel had been attached to the line a few feet behind the

arrow;

we hoped that it would catch in the rocks up there and wouldn't let us

down all too literally when we put our trust in it.

This time, however, Trevor was not using a single arrow. He attached

four to the line, at two-hundred-yard intervals. And I shall never

forget that incongruous spectacle of the space-suited figure, gleaming

in the last rays of the setting sun, as it drew its bow against the

sky.

The arrow sped toward the stars, and before it had lifted more than

fifty feet Trevor was already fitting the second one to his improvised

bow. It raced after its predecessor, carrying the other end of the

long loop that was now being hoisted into space. Almost at once the

third followed, lifting its section of line and I swear that the fourth

arrow, with its section, was on the way before the first had noticeably

slackened its momentum.

Now that there was no question of a single arrow lifting the entire

length of line, it was not hard to reach the required altitude. The

first two times the grapnel fell back; then it caught firmly somewhere

up on the hidden plateau and the first volunteer began to haul himself

up the line. It was true that he weighed only about thirty pounds in

this low gravity, but it was still a long way to fall.

He didn't. The stores in the freight rocket started coming down the

cliff within the next hour, and everything essential had been lowered

before nightfall. I must confess, however, that my satisfaction was

considerably abated when one of the engineers proudly showed me the

mouth organ he had sent from Earth. Even then I felt certain that we

would all be very tired of that instrument before the long lunar night

had ended.... But that, of course, was hardly Trevor's fault. As we

walked back to the ship together, through the great pools of shadow

that were flowing swiftly over the plain, he made a proposal that, I am

sure, has puzzled thousands of people ever since the detailed maps of

the first lunar expedition were published.

After all, it does seem a little odd that a flat and lifeless plain,

broken by a single small mountain, should now be labeled on all the

charts of the moon as Sherwood Forest.