"Heinlein, Robert A - Nothing Ever Happens On The Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

FOREWORD

This story was written twenty-one years before Dr. Neil Armstrong took “one short step for a man, a giant leap for mankind”—hut in all important essentials it has not (yet) become dated. True, we do not know that formations such as “morning glories” exist on Luna and we do not know that there are areas where footgear midway between skis and snowshoes would be useful. But the Lunar surface is about equal in area to Africa; a dozen men have explored an area smaller than Capetown for a total of a few days. We will still be exploring Luna and finding new wonders there when the first interstellar explorers return from Proxima Centauri or Tau Ceti.
This story is compatible with the so-called “Future History” stories. It is also part of my continuing postWar-lI attempt to leave the SF-pulp field and spread out. I never left the genre puips entirely, as it turned out to be easy to write a book-length job, then break it into three or four cliff-hangers and sell it as a pulp serial immediately before book publication. I did this with a dozen novels in the ‘40s and ‘SOs. But I recall only one story (GULF) specifically written for pulp, GULF being for Astounding’s unique “prophesied” issue.
Deus volent, I may someday collect my Boy Scout stories as one volume just as I would like to do with the Puddin’ stories.
NOTHING EVER HAPPENS ON
THE MOON


“I never knew a boy from Earth who wasn’t cocky.”
Mr. Andrews frowned at his Senior Patrol Leader.
“That’s childish, Sam. And no answer. I arrive expecting to find the troop ready to hike. Instead I find you and our visitor about to fight. And both of you Eagle Scouts! What started it?”
Sam reluctantly produced a clipping. “This, I guess.
It was from the Colorado Scouting News and read:
“Troop 48, Denver—LOCAL SCOUT SEEKS SKYHIGH HONOR. Bruce Hollifield, Eagle Scout, is moving with his family to South Pole, Venus. Those who know Bruce—and who doesn’t—expect him to qualify as Eagle (Venus) in jig time. Bruce will spend three weeks at Luna City, waiting for the Moon-Venus transport. Bruce has been boning up lately on lunar Scouting, and he has already qualified in space suit operation in the vacuum chamber at the Pike’s Peak space port. Cornered, Bruce admitted that he hopes to pass the tests for Eagle Scout (Luna) while on the Moon.
“If he does—and we’re betting on Bruce!—he’s a dead cinch to become the first Triple Eagle in history.
“Go to it, Bruce! Denver is proud of you. Show those Moon Scouts what real Scouting is like.”
Mr. Andrews looked up. “Where did this come from?”
“Uh, somebody sent it to Peewee.”
“Yes?”
“Well, we all read it and when Bruce came in, the fellows ribbed him. He got sore.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Uh .. . well, I was doing it myself.”
“Humph! Sam, this item is no sillier than the stuff our own Scribe turns in for publication. Bruce didn’t write it, and you yahoos had no business making his life miserable. Send him in. Meantime call the roll.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Mr. Andrews—”
“Yes?”
“What’s your opinion? Can this kid possibly qualify for lunar Eagle in three weeks?”
“No—and I’ve told him so. But he’s durn well going to have his chance. Which reminds me: you’re his instructor.”
“Me?” Sam looked stricken.
“You. You’ve let me down, Sam; this is your chance to correct it. Understand me?”
Sam swallowed. “I guess I do.”
“Send Hollifield in.”
Sam found the boy from Earth standing alone, pretending to study the bulletin board. Sam touched his arm. “The Skipper wants you.”
Bruce whirled around, then stalked away. Sam shrugged and shouted, “Rocket Patrol—fall in!”
Speedy Owens echoed, “Crescent Patrol—fall in!” As muster ended Mr. Andrews came out of his office, followed by Bruce. The Earth Scout seemed considerably chastened.
“Mr. Andrews says I’m to report to you.”
“That’s right.” They eyed each other cautiously. Sam said, “Look, Bruce—let’s start from scratch.”
“Suits me.”
“Fine. Just tag along with me.” At a sign from the Scoutmaster Sam shouted, “By twos! Follow me.”
Troop One jostled out the door, mounted a crosstown slidewalk and rode to East Air Lock.
Chubby Schneider, troop quartermaster, waited there with two assistants, near a rack of space suits. Duffel was spread around in enormous piles—packaged grub, tanks of water, huge air bottles, frames of heavy wire, a great steel drum, everything needed for pioneers on the airless crust of the Moon.
Sam introduced Bruce to the Quartermaster. “We’ve got to outfit him, Chubby.”
“That new G.E. job might fit him.”
Sam got the suit and spread it out. The suit was impregnated glass fabric, aluminum-sprayed to silvery whiteness. It closed from crotch to collar with a zippered gasket. It looked expensive; Bruce noticed a plate on the collar: DONATED BY THE LUNA CITY KIWANIS KLUB.
The helmet was a plastic bowl, silvered except where swept by the eyes of the wearer. There it was transparent, though heavily filtered.
Bruce’s uniform was stowed in a locker; Chubby handed him a loose-knit coverall. Sam and Chubby stuffed him into the suit and Chubby produced the instrument belt.
Both edges of the belt zipped to the suit; there were several rows of grippers for the top edge; thus a pleat could be taken. They fastened it with maximum pleat. “How’s that?” asked Sam.
“The collar cuts my shoulders.”
“It won’t under pressure. If we leave slack, your head will pull out of the helmet like a cork.” Sam strapped the air, water, radio, and duffel-rack backpack to Bruce’s shoulders. “Pressure check, Chubby.”
“We’ll dress first.” While Chubby and Sam dressed, Bruce located his intake and exhaust valves, the spill valve inside his collar, and the water nipple beside it. He took a drink and inspected his belt.