Journey to the Heart of Luna - Andy Frankham-Allen [22]
Nathanial swallowed and felt his heart beat that bit faster. Clearly something serious was going on.
They were now within the non-atmosphere of Luna, and in his mind Nathanial could see his governor working away, delicately making adjustments to the aether propeller. A smile passed his lips; he would wager that even the design of Cyrus Grant was not as efficient as that which he had perfected. Guilt at that thought soon jumped to the forefront of his mind once his eyes saw the object to which Folkard had alluded.
A wreck of a flyer rested on the lunar surface, several yards from a crater that stretched on for miles. Abstractly, Nathanial’s mind calculated that the crater was at the very least four times the diameter of the Grand Canyon. The basin stretched across into shadow, the dark side of the moon facing away from Earth. Even though they were miles above the wreck, the flyer was big enough for Nathanial to immediately indentify it. The last time he had seen it was in Arizona, resting on the birthing scaffolding. It was the flyer of Doctor Cyrus Grant, designed especially for lunar navigation.
“Oh Lord,” he said, a whispered prayer. If only they had instruments that detected life signs. As advanced as their science was, still their medical knowledge was lacking, and instruments to measure heart rate from a distance was still many years away. “Captain,” he continued, not able to take his eyes off the wreckage, “that is the Annabelle, Doctor Grant’s flyer.”
“Yes, Professor, that’s what we feared.” There was a beat of silence, the background rattle of the ship the only sound that permeated the bridge. “Very well,” Folkard said, his voice now quiet with authority, “Lieutenant Bedford, assemble a team to investigate the Annabelle. I want Ordinary Seaman Stevenson on that team.”
“Yes, sir!” Bedford snapped to attention, saluted, and left the navigator’s station. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, you have had low-gravity training?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Capital! You’re with me,” Bedford said. He glanced over at Nathanial. “Do not fret, Professor Stone, if Miss Somerset is in the wreck we will do everything we can for her.”
Nathanial, the wind having been taken out of him by the sight of the flyer and the possibility of Annabelle’s demise, straightened up, his mind now set. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lieutenant, but if I may? I request permission to join your team.”
Bedford was about to reply, but Folkard stepped in. “Request denied, Professor. I’ll be in need of your help in the search for Doctor Grant.”
“But, Captain, I need…”
“No, Professor, while you’re a guest on my ship you will consider yourself under my command. Besides which, the gloves of the atmosphere suit would never fit your bandaged hand.”
Nathanial looked down at the offending hand. It was a flimsy excuse at best, and he wanted to argue the point, but the look in Folkard’s eyes brokered no alternative but obedience. Nathanial lowered his head and turned back to the view of the wrecked flyer below. “Yes, Captain.”
3.
“REMEMBER, THE oxygen tanks contain only enough air for an hour.”
Stevenson looked up from the oxygen tank on the floor before him. He held the pipe in his hand nervously. He had been trained to use an atmosphere suit, but had never been in a situation that required practical experience of one. He was but eighteen years of age, and the thought of being in an airless vacuum, with just a suit keeping him alive, did not fill him with much confidence.
Outwardly, of course, he did not show any sign of his doubts. He had been in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy for almost two years, and was looking forward to advancing beyond able seaman in a few years. His service record, so far, had been exemplary; he had heard his boatswain say so on many occasions, and he did not wish to discredit that reputation now by looking like a nervous school boy. His behaviour in the engine room earlier had been enough to shame him, and it would have done had there been another officer