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                         The Reluctant Heroes

                         By FRANK M. ROBINSON

                       Illustrated by DON SIBLEY

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                 Galaxy Science Fiction January 1951.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




         Pioneers have always resented their wanderlust, hated
       their hardships. But the future brings a new grudge--when
           pioneers stay put and scholars do the exploring!


_The very young man sat on the edge of the sofa and looked nervous. He
carefully studied his fingernails and ran his hands through his hair
and picked imaginary lint off the upholstery._

_"I have a chance to go with the first research expedition to Venus,"
he said._

_The older man studied the very young man thoughtfully and then leaned
over to his humidor and offered him a cigaret. "It's nice to have the
new air units now. There was a time when we had to be very careful
about things like smoking."_

_The very young man was annoyed._

_"I don't think I want to go," he blurted. "I don't think I would care
to spend two years there."_

_The older man blew a smoke ring and watched it drift toward the air
exhaust vent._

_"You mean you would miss it here, the people you've known and grown
up with, the little familiar things that have made up your life here.
You're afraid the glamor would wear off and you would get to hate it on
Venus."_

_The very young man nodded miserably. "I guess that's it."_

_"Anything else?"_

_The very young man found his fingernails extremely fascinating again
and finally said, in a low voice, "Yes, there is."_

_"A girl?"_

_A nod confirmed this._

_It was the older man's turn to look thoughtful. "You know, I'm sure,
that psychologists and research men agree that research stations should
be staffed by couples. That is, of course, as soon as it's practical."_

_"But that might be a long time!" the very young man protested._

_"It might be--but sometimes it's sooner than you think. And the goal
is worth it."_

_"I suppose so, but--"_

_The older man smiled. "Still the reluctant heroes," he said, somewhat
to himself._

       *       *       *       *       *

Chapman stared at the radio key.

Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.

Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.
Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price
idea. They probably thought he liked it there.

Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,
and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated
with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take
only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of
tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where
you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys
didn't work right.

And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another
year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the
opportunity.

The key started to stutter again, demanding an answer.

He tapped out his reply: "_No!_"

There was a silence and then the key stammered once more in a sudden
fit of bureaucratic rage. Chapman stuffed a rag under it and ignored
it. He turned to the hammocks, strung against the bulkhead on the other
side of the room.

The chattering of the key hadn't awakened anybody; they were still
asleep, making the animal noises that people usually make in slumber.
Dowden, half in the bottom hammock and half on the floor, was snoring
peacefully. Dahl, the poor kid who was due for stopover, was mumbling
to himself. Julius Klein, with that look of ineffable happiness on his
face, looked as if he had just squirmed under the tent to his personal
idea of heaven. Donley and Bening were lying perfectly still, their
covers not mussed, sleeping very lightly.

Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.

"What'd they want?" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on
his face.

"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands," Chapman
whispered back.

"What did you say?"

He shrugged. "No."

"You kept it short," somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and
sitting on the side of his hammock. "If it had been me, I would have
told them just what they could do about it."

       *       *       *       *       *

The others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face
to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.

Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Sore, aren't you?"

"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?"

"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.
They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good
man to stay on the job a while longer."

"_All_ they're trying to do," Chapman said sarcastically. "They've got
a fat chance."

"They think you've found a home here," Donley said.

"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?" Dahl was awake,
looking bitter. "Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of
us aren't going back today."

No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And
Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.

Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,
and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day
for breakfast duty.

The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last
day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members
of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.

And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally
going home.

He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was
morning--the Moon's "morning"--and he shivered slightly. The rays of
the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows
shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in
a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the
Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.

A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small
mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of
small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still
see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered
about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there
was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.

That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,
one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.

Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced
himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long
you could almost taste the glue on the label.

       *       *       *       *       *

Donley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and
Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.
Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.

"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left
there yet?" Klein asked.

"I talked to them on the last call," Chapman said. "The relief ship
left there twelve hours ago. They should get here"--he looked at his
watch--"in about six and a half hours."

"Chap, you know, I've been thinking," Donley said quietly. "You've
been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing
you're going to do once you get back?"

It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and
blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits
were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and
looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.

"I don't know," Chapman said slowly. "I guess I was trying not to think
of that. I suppose none of us have. We've been like little kids who
have waited so long for Christmas that they just can't believe it when
it's finally Christmas Eve."

Klein nodded in agreement. "I haven't been here three years like you
have, but I think I know what you mean." He warmed up to it as the idea
sank in. "Just what the hell _are_ you going to do?"

"Nothing very spectacular," Chapman said, smiling. "I'm going to rent
a room over Times Square, get a recording of a rikky-tik piano, and
drink and listen to the music and watch the people on the street below.
Then I think I'll see somebody."

"Who's the somebody?" Donley asked.

Chapman grinned. "Oh, just somebody. What are you going to do, Dick?"

"Well, I'm going to do something practical. First of all, I want to
turn over all my geological samples to the government. Then I'm going
to sell my life story to the movies and then--why, then, I think I'll
get drunk!"

Everybody laughed and Chapman turned to Klein.

"How about you, Julius?"

Klein looked solemn. "Like Dick, I'll first get rid of my obligations
to the expedition. Then I think I'll go home and see my wife."

They were quiet. "I thought all members of the groups were supposed to
be single," Donley said.

"They are. And I can see their reasons for it. But who could pass up
the money the Commission was paying?"

"If I had to do it all over again? Me," said Donley promptly.

They laughed. Somebody said: "Go play your record, Chap. Today's the
day for it."

The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in
when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the
shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.

     Way Back Home by Al Lewis.

       *       *       *       *       *

They ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman
thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was
just starting to sink in.

"You know, Chap," Donley said, "it won't seem like the same old Moon
without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or
something and it just won't have the same old appeal."

"Like they say in the army," Bening said, "you never had it so good.
You found a home here."

The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they
couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it
too much.

The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished
getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map
before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping
of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to
investigate.

And the time went faster when you kept busy.

Chapman stopped them at the lock. "Remember to check your suits for
leaks," he warned. "And check the valves of your oxygen tanks."

Donley looked sour. "I've gone out at least five hundred times," he
said, "and you check me each time."

"And I'd check you five hundred more," Chapman said. "It takes only
one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go
through one of those and that's it, brother."

Donley sighed. "Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we
check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored
and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us
if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out
that your little boys can watch out for themselves!"

But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank
before he left.

Only Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work
table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.

"I never knew you were married," Chapman said.

Klein didn't look up. "There wasn't much sense in talking about it. You
just get to thinking and wanting--and there's nothing you can do about
it. You talk about it and it just makes it worse."

"She let you go without any fuss, huh?"

"No, she didn't make any fuss. But I don't think she liked to see me
go, either." He laughed a little. "At least I hope she didn't."

       *       *       *       *       *

They were silent for a while. "What do you miss most, Chap?" Klein
asked. "Oh, I know what we said a little while ago, but I mean
seriously."

Chapman thought a minute. "I think I miss the sky," he said quietly.
"The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that
turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I'd like to go
out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin."

He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.
"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers
on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap
perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark."

He studied his hands. "I think what I miss most is people--all kinds
of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,
and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an
artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a
million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I
miss my fellow man more than anything."

"Got a girl back home?" Klein asked almost casually.

"Yes."

"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it."

"Same reason you didn't mention your wife. You get to thinking about
it."

Klein flipped the lid on the specimen box. "Going to get married when
you get back?"

Chapman was at the port again, staring out at the bleak landscape. "We
hope to."

"Settle down in a small cottage and raise lots of little Chapmans, eh?"

Chapman nodded.

"That's the only future," Klein said.

He put away the box and came over to the port. Chapman moved over so
they both could look out.

"Chap." Klein hesitated a moment. "What happened to Dixon?"

"He died," Chapman said. "He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.
Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much
about it that he forgot a lot of little things--like how to stay alive.
The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work
he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not
the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in
time."

"He had his walkie-talkie with him?"

"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his
mind at the end."

Klein's face was blank. "What's your real job here, Chap? Why does
somebody have to stay for stopover?"

"Hell, lots of reasons, Julius. You can't get a whole relief crew and
let them take over cold. They have to know where you left off. They
have to know where things are, how things work, what to watch out for.
And then, because you've been here a year and a half and know the
ropes, you have to watch them to see that they stay alive in spite of
themselves. The Moon's a new environment and you have to learn how to
live in it. There's a lot of things to learn--and some people just
never learn."

"You're nursemaid, then."

"I suppose you could call it that."

       *       *       *       *       *

Klein said, "You're not a scientist, are you?"

"No, you should know that. I came as the pilot of the first ship. We
made the bunker out of parts of the ship so there wasn't anything to
go back on. I'm a good mechanic and I made myself useful with the
machinery. When it occurred to us that somebody was going to have to
stay over, I volunteered. I thought the others were so important that
it was better they should take their samples and data back to Earth
when the first relief ship came."

"You wouldn't do it again, though, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Do you think Dahl will do as good a job as you've done here?"

Chapman frowned. "Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe
I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He
volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job
when you talked it over among yourselves."

"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too
much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like
a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That
you have."

Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.

"I'm not the indispensable man," he said slowly, "and even if I was, it
wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was
I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more."

Klein held up his hands. "Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I
know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just--"
His voice trailed away. "It's just that I think it's such a damn
important job."

Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman
enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over
to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and
his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed
the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the
bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling
it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a
week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred
its meager belongings to the bag.

He hadn't actually needed to pack, of course. In less than twenty-four
hours he'd be back on Earth where he could drown himself in toothpaste
and buy more tee shirts than he could wear in a lifetime. He could
leave behind his shorts and socks and the outsize shirts he had
inherited from--who was it? Driesbach?--of the First group. Dahl could
probably use them or maybe one of the boys in the Third.

       *       *       *       *       *

But it wasn't like going home unless you packed. It was part of the
ritual, like marking off the last three weeks in pencil on the gray
steel of the bulkhead beside his hammock. Just a few hours ago, when he
woke up, he had made the last check mark and signed his name and the
date. His signature was right beneath Dixon's.

He frowned when he thought of Dixon and slid back the catch on the top
of the bag and locked it. They should never have sent a kid like Dixon
to the Moon.

He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and
the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He
watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in
and unscrew its helmet.

Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe
Dowden hadn't needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely,
considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn't much good at helping anybody
today.

Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of
sweat and his eyes were frightened.

He moistened his lips slightly. "Do--do you think they'll ever have
relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I
mean, considering the advance of--"

"No," Chapman interrupted bluntly. "I don't. Not at least for ten
years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On
freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they
send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about
so it will shorten stopover right away." He stopped, feeling a little
sorry for Dahl. "It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and
you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them."

"Well, you see," Dahl started, "that's why I came back early. I wanted
to see you about stopover. It's that--well, I'll put it this way." He
seemed to be groping for an easy way to say what he wanted to. "I'm
engaged back home. Really nice girl, Chap, you'd like her if you knew
her." He fumbled in his pocket and found a photograph and put it on
the desk. "That's a picture of Alice, taken at a picnic we were on
together." Chapman didn't look. "She--we--expected to be married when
I got back. I never told her about stopover, Chap. She thinks I'll be
home tomorrow. I kept thinking, hoping, that maybe somehow--"

He was fumbling it badly, Chapman thought.

"You wanted to trade places with me, didn't you, Bob? You thought I
might stay for stopover again, in your place?"

It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was
trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't
help himself.

"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!
But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,
the only one who was qualified!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Dahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall
all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from
one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or
something.

It still didn't add, not quite. "You know I don't like it here any more
than you do," Chapman said slowly. "I may have commitments at home,
too. What made you think I would change my mind?"

Dahl took the plunge. "Well, you see," he started eagerly, too far gone
to remember such a thing as pride, "you know my father's pretty well
fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap." He was feverish. "It
would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!"

Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly
evaporating.

"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,"
he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. "It'll
be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the
captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here."

He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for
anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.

It would eat at him like a cancer.

Cowardice is the one thing for which no man ever forgives himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Donley was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally,
he saw the ship first. "Well, whaddya know!" he shouted. "We got
company!" He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and
all three started for the lock.

Chapman was standing in front of it. "Check your suits," he said
softly. "Just be sure to check."

"Oh, what the hell, Chap!" Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and
went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was
only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have
got to him in time, but.... He bit his lips and got a full tank.

Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the
tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The
port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the
ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short
jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman
noticed one--it was probably Donley--pat the ship affectionately before
he started back.

They were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in
the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and
solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on
their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second
group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.

Donley and the others were all over them.

       *       *       *       *       *

How was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still
teaching at the university? What was the international situation?

Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still
turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there
still people who didn't know what an atom was and didn't give a damn?

Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?

Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of
them--a husky, red-faced kid named Williams--was opening a box about a
foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.

"Well, I'll be damned!" Klein said. "Hey, guys, look what we've got
here!"

Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over
and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary
dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his
hand and laid it on top of the grass.

"I like the feel of it," he said simply.

Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between
his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury
of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry
summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.

Williams blushed. "I thought we could spare a little water for it and
maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn't help
but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol...." He looked
embarrassed.

Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he'd have tried to
smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.

"That's valuable grass," Dahl said sharply. "Do you realize that at
current freight rates up here, it's worth about ten dollars a blade?"

Williams looked stricken and somebody said, "Oh, shut up, Dahl."

One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He
held out his hand and said, "My name's Eberlein. Captain of the relief
ship. I understand you're in charge here?"

Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn't had a captain on the First
ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too.
Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.

"You might say I'm in charge here," Chapman said.

"Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together
privately?"

They walked over to one corner of the bunker. "This is about as private
as we can get, captain," Chapman said. "What's on your mind?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Eberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked
at Chapman.

"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than
anybody else," he began.

"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity."

Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. "Mind if I smoke?"

Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. "Ask him. He's in charge now."

The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. "You know we have big
plans for the station," he said.

"I hadn't heard of them."

"Oh, yes, _big plans_. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets
now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.
Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked
together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people."
His eyes swept the room. "Have a little privacy for a change."

Chapman nodded. "They could use a little privacy up here."

The captain noticed the pronoun. "Well, that's one of the reasons why
I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and
they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,
add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical
experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only
man who's capable and who's had the experience."

The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.

"Is that all?"

Eberlein was ill at ease. "Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't
imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to
double your salary--maybe even a bonus in addition--and let you have
full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories."

All this and a title too, Chapman thought.

"That's it?" Chapman asked.

Eberlein frowned. "Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to
consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or...."

"The answer is no," Chapman said. "I'm not interested in more money
for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,
captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to
appreciate that.

"Bob Dahl is staying for stopover. If there's something important about
the project or impending changes, perhaps you'd better tell him before
you go."

He walked away.

       *       *       *       *       *

Chapman held the letter in both hands, but the paper still shook. The
others had left the bunker, the men of the Second taking those of
the Third in hand to show them the machinery and apparatus that was
outside, point out the deadly blisters underneath the pumice covering,
and show them how to keep out of the Sun and how to watch their air
supply.

He was glad he was alone. He felt something trickle down his face and
tasted salt on his lips.

The mail had been distributed and he had saved his latest letter until
the others had left so he could read it in privacy. It was a short
letter, very short.

It started: "Dear Joel: This isn't going to be a nice letter, but I
thought it best that you should know before you came home."

There was more to it, but he hadn't even needed to read it to know what
it said. It wasn't original, of course. Women who change their minds
weren't exactly an innovation, either.

He crumpled the paper and held a match to it and watched it burn on the
steel floor.

Three years had been a long time. It was too long a time to keep loving
a man who was a quarter of a million miles away. She could look up in
the night sky when she was out with somebody else now and tell him how
she had once been engaged to the Man in the Moon.

It would make good conversation. It would be funny. A joke.

He got up and walked over to his phonograph and put the record on. The
somewhat scratchy voice sang as if nothing had happened

     Way Back Home by Al Lewis.

The record caught and started repeating the last line.

He hadn't actually wanted to play it. It had been an automatic
response. He had played it lots of times before when he had thought of
Earth. Of going home.

He crossed over and threw the record across the bunker and watched it
shatter on the steel wall and the pieces fall to the floor.

The others came back in the bunker and the men of the Second started
grabbing their bags and few belongings and getting ready to leave.
Dahl sat in a corner, a peculiar expression on his face. He looked as
if he wanted to cry and yet still felt that the occasion was one for
rejoicing.

Chapman walked over to him. "Get your stuff and leave with the others,
Dahl." His voice was quiet and hard.

Dahl looked up, opened his mouth to say something, and then shut
up. Donley and Bening and Dowden were already in the airlock, ready
to leave. Klein caught the conversation and came over. He gripped
Chapman's arm.

"What the hell's going on, Chap? Get your bag and let's go. I know just
the bistro to throw a whing-ding when we get--"

"I'm not going back," Chapman said.

Klein looked annoyed, not believing him. "Come on, what's the matter
with you? You suddenly decide you don't like the blue sky and trees and
stuff? Let's go!"

The men in the lock were looking at them questioningly. Some members
of the Third looked embarrassed, like outsiders caught in a family
argument.

"Look, Julius, I'm not going back," Chapman repeated dully. "I haven't
anything to go back for."

"You're doing a much braver thing than you may think," a voice cut in.
It belonged to Eberlein.

Chapman looked at him. Eberlein flushed, then turned and walked-stiffly
to the lock to join the others.

Just before the inner door of the lock shut, they could hear Chapman,
his hands on his hips, breaking in the Third on how to be happy and
stay healthy on the Moon. His voice was ragged and strained and sounded
like a top-sergeant's.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dahl and Eberlein stood in the outer port of the relief ship, staring
back at the research bunker. It was half hidden in the shadows of a
rocky overhang that protected it from meteorites.

"They kidded him a lot this morning," Dahl said. "They said he had
found a home on the Moon."

"If we had stayed an hour or so more, he might have changed his mind
and left, after all," Eberlein mused, his face a thoughtful mask behind
his air helmet.

"I offered him money," Dahl said painfully. "I was a coward and I
offered him money to stay in my place." His face was bitter and full
of disgust for himself.

Eberlein turned to him quickly and automatically told him the right
thing.

"We're all cowards once in a while," he said earnestly. "But your offer
of money had nothing to do with his staying. He stayed because he had
to stay, because we made him stay."

"I don't understand," Dahl said.

"Chapman had a lot to go home for. He was engaged to be married." Dahl
winced. "We got her to write him a letter breaking it off. We knew it
meant that he lost one of his main reasons for wanting to go back. I
think, perhaps, that he still would have left if we had stayed and
argued him into going. But we left before he could change his mind."

"That--was a lousy thing to do!"

"We had no choice. We didn't use it except as a last resort."

"I don't know of any girl who would have done such a thing, no matter
what your reasons, if she was in love with a guy like Chapman," Dahl
said.

"There was only one who would have," Eberlein agreed. "Ginny Dixon. She
understood what we were trying to tell her. She had to; her brother had
died up here."

"Why was Chapman so important?" Dahl burst out. "What could he have
done that I couldn't have done--would have done if I had had any guts?"

"Perhaps you could have," Eberlein said. "But I doubt it. I don't think
there were many men who could have. And we couldn't take the chance.
Chapman knows how to live on the Moon. He's like a trapper who's spent
all his time in the forests and knows it like the palm of his hand.
He never makes mistakes, he never fails to check things. And he isn't
a scientist. He would never become so preoccupied with research that
he'd fail to make checks. And he can watch out for those who do make
mistakes. Ginny understood that all too well."

"How did you know all this about Chapman?" Dahl asked.

"The men in the First told us some of it. And we had our own observer
with you here. Bening kept us pretty well informed."

       *       *       *       *       *

Eberlein stared at the bunker thoughtfully.

"It costs a lot of money to send ships up here and establish a colony.
It will cost a lot to expand it. And with that kind of investment, you
don't take chances. You have to have the best men for the job. You get
them even if they don't want to do it."

He gestured at the small, blotchy globe of blue and green that was the
Earth, riding high in the black sky.

"You remember what it was like five years ago, Dahl? Nations at each
other's throats, re-arming to the teeth? It isn't that way now. We've
got the one lead that nobody can duplicate or catch up on. Nobody has
our technical background. I know, this isn't a military base. But it
could become one."

He paused.

"But these aren't even the most important reasons, Dahl. We're at the
beginnings of space travel, the first bare, feeble start. If this base
on the Moon succeeds, the whole human race will be Outward Bound." He
waved at the stars. "You have your choice--a frontier that lies in the
stars, or a psychotic little world that tries and fails and spends its
time and talents trying to find better methods of suicide.

"With a choice like that, Dahl, you can't let it fail. And personal
lives and viewpoints are expendable. But it's got to be that way.
There's too much at stake."

Eberlein hesitated a moment and when he started again, it was on a
different track. "You're an odd bunch of guys, you and the others in
the groups, Dahl. Damn few of you come up for the glamor, I know.
None of you like it and none of you are really enthusiastic about it.
You were all reluctant to come in the first place, for the most part.
You're a bunch of pretty reluctant heroes, Dahl."

The captain nodded soberly at the bunker. "I, personally, don't feel
happy about that. I don't like having to mess up other people's lives.
I hope I won't have to again. Maybe somehow, someway, this one can be
patched up. We'll try to."

He started the mechanism that closed the port of the rocket. His face
was a study of regret and helplessness. He was thinking of a future
that, despite what he had told Dahl, wasn't quite real to him.

"I feel like a cheap son of a bitch," Eberlein said.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The very young man said, "Do they actually care where they send us? Do
they actually care what we think?"_

_The older man got up and walked to the window. The bunkers and towers
and squat buildings of the research colony glinted in the sunlight. The
colony had come a long way; it housed several thousands now._

_The Sun was just rising for the long morning and farther down shadows
stabbed across the crater floor. Tycho was by far the most beautiful of
the craters, he thought._

_It was nice to know that the very young man was going to miss it. It
had taken the older man quite a long time to get to like it. But that
was to be expected--he hadn't been on the Moon._

_"I would say so," he said. "They were cruel, that way, at the start.
But then they had to be. The goal was too important. And they made up
for it as soon as they could. It didn't take them too long to remember
the men who had traded their future for the stars."_

_The very young man said, "Did you actually think of it that way when
you first came up here?"_

_The older man thought for a minute. "No," he admitted. "No, we didn't.
Most of us were strictly play-for-pay men. The Commission wanted
men who wouldn't fall apart when the glamor wore off and there was
nothing left but privation and hard work and loneliness. The men who
fell for the glamor were all right for quick trips, but not for an
eighteen-month stay in a research bunker. So the Commission offered
high salaries and we reluctantly took the jobs. Oh, there was the
idea behind the project, the vision the Commission had in mind. But it
took a while for that to grow."_

_A woman came in the room just then, bearing a tray with glasses on
it. The older man took one and said, "Your mother and I were notified
yesterday that you had been chosen to go. We would like to see you go,
but of course the final decision is up to you."_

_He sipped his drink and turned to his wife: "It has its privations,
but in the long run we've never regretted it, have we, Ginny?"_





End of Project Gutenberg's The Reluctant Heroes, by Frank M. Robinson