Embalmers, thought Doug. Undertakers. Bury me on the Moon, he wanted to say. And don’t forget Brennart’s statue.

“The Yamagata team?” he heard himself croak.

“Killifer went out to get them,” Rhee replied gently, soothingly. “Moonbase agreed with you, rescuing them blocks any claim they might have tried to make.”

“They’re okay?”

“We don’t know yet Killifer hasn’t reached them, yet”

“I get all the shit jobs,” Killifer grumbled.

Deems, wedged into the cramped cockpit beside him, shrugged resignedly. “Well, you’re not alone, are you.”

They were piloting one of the Jobbers over Mt Wasseir, searching for the crashed Yamagata ship. Killifer had been ordered to do so directly by Jinny Anson, Moonbase’s director.

Two big lobbers had arrived at their south polar camp from Moonbase, filled with oxygen and other supplies, but without a single human being aboard. Killifer had to guide their landings remotely and use the expedition’s remaining personnel to unload them. Instructions — orders, really — from Anson back at Moonbase crackled along the satellite ; relay system: Get Doug Stavenger back to Moonbase immedi ately. Then go find the wrecked Yamagata lander and save its crew.

Killifer had loaded the Stavenger kid onto one of the lobbers. The astronomer, Rhee, volunteered to go with him. Volunteered hell, Killifer thought Nobody could tear the little gook from the kid’s side.

The expedition was a mess, but from what Anson told him, the corporation would have a valid claim to the area as soon as Stavenger’s vidcam pictures were verified. As he monitored the Jobber’s automated takeoff for its return flight to Moonbase, Killifer almost hoped that the radiation had ruined the vidcam and the disk would be a blank.

What the hell, he told himself. It rankled him, though, that even if he died young Stavenger would be a fucking hero. Especially if he died.

“I’m getting a transponder signal,” Deems said.

The summit of Mt Wasser was below them. Glancing down through the cockpit’s transparent bubble, Killifer could glimpse the telescope and other gear that Brennart and Stavenger had left on the mountaintop.

“Show me,” he said to Deems.

With the tap of a gloved finger, Deems brought up the transponder signal on the cockpit’s starscope display of the deeply shadowed ground below them. The screen showed not much more than a blur, with a red dot winking at them.

“Let’s take it down to five hundred and hover,” Killifer said.

“That’ll burn up a lot of propellant.” Deems’ face was covered by his helmet visor, but his voice sounded scared.

“We gotta see the ground before we set down on it,” Killifer said. “Friggin’ starscope sure isn’t showing much. Switch to infrared.”

“It’s too cold down there in the dark,” said Deems. “Must be two hundred below, at least.”

“Switch to infrared,” Killifer repeated, louder.

Silently Deems touched the keypad and the cockpit’s main screen showed a false-color image of the ground below: mostly deep black.

“That must be ice,” Killifer said.

“Yeah, it’s absorbing the infrared.”

“And the transponder signal’s right in the middle of it”

“They must’ve landed on the ice,” said Deems.

Killifer nodded inside his helmet. “Landing jets melted the ice under them and they splashed in. Dumb bastards.”

“Good thing the ice isn’t too deep.”

“Nah, it must’ve refrozen as soon as they turned off then-rocket engines.”

“Then they must be stuck in it”

“Yeah,” Killifer said disgustedly. “And we better make sure we don’t get caught in the same stupid trap.”

Killifer was not primarily a pilot, although over the years at Moonbase he had trained in both lobbers and hoppers and flown them many times. But setting down in pitch darkness in totally unfamiliar territory — no wonder the Japs crashed, he said to himself.

Hovering above the ice field while Deems worriedly stared at their fuel gauge, Killifer jinked the lumbering spacecraft sideways, searching for solid ground to land on.

“Ice field’s a lot bigger on this side of the mountain,” he muttered.

“But they wont be able to claim it once we rescue them, huh?”

“That’s the theory.” The only ground the infrared display showed looked too rough for a landing, strewn with boulders; the size of houses.

The radio speaker crackled. “Anson to Killifer. Yamagata just launched a lobber from Nippon One on a trajectory for the polar region. Must be their rescue party. Where are you?”

“Looking for a place to land without breaking our asses,” Killifer replied.

“It’s important that you get to the Yamagata team before their rescue party does,” said Anson.

“Yeah, I know. But there doesn’t look like much room to put down safely. That’s why the Japs crashed in the first place.”

“There must be someplace!”

“When I find it I’ll let you know.” Killifer punched the radio off. Turning to Deems, he added, “If we can find a landing spot before we run out of fuel.”

Deems said, “How about right on the edge of the ice?”

“We’ll melt it, just like they did.”

“Okay, but it can’t be real deep there. Must be solid ground underneath.” Before Killifer could object he added, “And if there’s boulders big enough to give us trouble, they’d probably be poking up above the surface of the ice.”

“Probably,” Killifer muttered.

“I don’t see any other way,” said Deems. “Do you?”

Killifer stared at the polished visor of Deems’ helmet. He could only make out the vaguest outline of the face inside. For a scared rabbit, Killifer though, he’s getting pretty gutsy.

“Otherwise we’re just going to run out of propellant jerking around, looking for a flat spot that isn’t here.”

Unaccustomed to bold ideas from Deems, Killifer grunted and mumbled, “Maybe you’re right.”

MOONBASE

It was unusual for a Clippership to land at Moonbase. Usually (the big commercial spaceliners went only as far as the space stations that hugged Earth in low orbits.

Greg watched the main display screen at the spaceport flight control center as the big, cone-shaped Maxwell Hunter settled slowly, silently on its rocket exhaust. More than a dozen others had crowded into the flight control center, too. Like a cruise liner landing in some out-of-the-way port, Greg thought. The natives go down to the dock to watch.

A flexible access tube wormed its way to the Clipper’s main airlock while the ship stood on the blast-scarred landing pad, gleaming in the sunlight. Greg knew that the Clipper carried Professor Wilhelm Zimmerman and four of his top aides. Kris Cardenas was on her way to Moonbase, also. And Mom. It’s going to be a busy few hours here, he said to himself.

Greg was shocked when Wilhelm Zimmerman pushed through the airlock hatch at the underground receiving area. He was grossly fat, almost as wide across his soft sagging middle as he was tall. Bald, jowly, wearing a gray three-piece business suit with the unbuttoned jacket flapping ludicrously, the first thing he did upon setting foot on the underground chamber’s rock floor was to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a long, black, evil-looking cigar.

“You can’t smoke in here!” Greg shouted, lunging toward him.

Zimmerman scowled from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “So? Then where?”

“Nowhere in Moonbase. Snicking is strictly prohibited. For safety reasons.”

“Nonsense!” Zimmerman snapped. “Like the laws in Switzerland. Pure nonsense.” He fished in his side pocket and pulled out a gold lighter.

Greg gently took the lighter from him. “This is a totally artificial environment,” he said. “Smoking is not allowed.”

Zimmerman’s scowl deepened. “You drag me up here to this… this… cavern, you ask me to perform a miracle for you, and you deny me my only vice?” His English was heavily accented but understandable.