Once we popped the two hatches, we created a narrow tunnel between the two vessels. After hours shoehorned in the Apollo capsule, the extra space felt like we had finished off our attached garage.

Moving around in zero gravity is like swimming, except that every movement’s consequences are exaggerated. I got the hang fast, but Howard bounced around the Apollo like a golf ball hit in a shower stall.

Metzger and I finally strapped him back into his seat, and he explained our gear to me, panting. He held up a plasteel box the size of a kitten. “Mass spectrometer. Touch the probe to any part of the Projectile hull, and we’ll read chemical composition in a nanosecond.”

The next item I knew. “Palm holocam.”

He nodded. As we ticked off each item it went in a rucksack that soon bulged like Santa’s bag before his first stop.

I pointed at it. “Who carries that?”

“On the moon it weighs one-sixth what it does on Earth.”

“Meaning I carry that?”

He nodded. “And this.” He drew a pistol from floating wrappings, an old, nine-millimeter Browning automatic. He held it between fingers like it was rotten fruit. “I hate these things.”

I could tell the weapon was clear because the slide was back, and the magazine floated next to it.

He held up a plasti of ammunition. “The shells are loaded with less powder to reduce recoil in lunar gravity. Guns work fine in vacuum. Their combustion oxygen is stored in the powder grains—”

“Howard, why do I need a gun? It’s just a broken machine.”

He shrugged. “Precaution.”

“There’s something alive in that thing?”

He shrugged again. “Who knows? Be better if there is.”

“Better for who?”

He just shrugged.

Howard and Metzger kept busy in the LEM. Metzger checked the LEM’s systems, Howard the sensors and recorders he would use to examine the alien wreck.

My job was to check the low-tech part of the lunar-excursion equipment Howard wasn’t checking. I had a day to do it, and I thought while I worked.

We were actually going to walk on the moon in white, extravehicular-activity suits with gold visors, just like the old pioneers. The suit sleeves still had fifty-star American flag patches.

Until I unpacked the EVA suits I didn’t know how “just like.” While the suits had been updated, they had ac-tually been built and used for training decades ago, during the Apollo program.

This mission was so tacked-together that our EVA suits hadn’t even been laundered or checked since last century. Those old pioneers had trained hard enough to sweat plenty. I unzipped the first suit and ammonia reek slapped my nose like a gym locker of old jocks opened after seventy years. I breathed through my mouth to filter the stink as I worked.

I dug in a cargo net behind the suit that had been altered to fit me and found a fat-barreled signal-flare pistol and a yellowed pamphlet, copyright 1972, titled Surviving in the Pacific .

The capsules used to parachute into the ocean. I made a mental note to remind Howard and Metzger that they had forgotten to brief me whatsoever on return-flight procedure and tucked the leftovers into my suit’s thigh pocket.

I also found a packet of orange powder called Tang. I dissolved a little in a water squirt bottle and tasted it. Tang is to orange juice as MREs are to food.

It brought home to me how hardy the old-time space pioneers must have been. They crossed space in this tiny coffin, like a rice grain tossed on the Pacific, living on acidic swill. Many died. Not from the Tang. It wasn’t that bad.

But they didn’t even have ‘puters. They did math with wooden rulers.

The history chips say they came in peace for all mankind.

If that had been true, they wouldn’t have quit coming. Those old sleeve flag patches weren’t United Nations, and they sure weren’t Russian. The Cold War drove mankind to the moon. When America won that war, we stopped coming.

Since the first Neanderthal figured out he could poke his rival better with a stick than a finger, quantum technology leaps have been war-driven. From the chariots and long bows of antiquity to jets and nuclear fission last century to coagulant bandages and Brain-Link Robotics in this century, the sad truth is that war is to human innovation as manure is to marigolds.

Peace lets us meander. So, seventy years of peaceful meander after man landed on the moon we were making the crossing in this same primitive pud.

By day three, the moon’s white glow filled the viewport.

Metzger pointed at a gleaming flat to our lower right. “Mare Fecunditatis. The Sea of Fertility. It’s just a couple hundred miles from the dark side.”

“Why did it crash there?”

“Wouldn’t we like to know?” said Metzger. “That’s one question we want answered. No Projectile’s so much as sputtered on the way in before.”

I turned to Howard. He was unwrapping nicotine gum. This might be a tobacco-days spacecraft, but this flight was all nonsmoking.

“Howard, what’s the terrain like?” This question made me proud. A good Infantryman always knows METT— mission, enemy, terrain, and time.

“Flat. A lava flow covered in dust of unknowable thickness. We guess a few inches thick from the skid mark the Projectile cut on impact. It crash-landed oblique. That’s why it’s still in one piece.” Howard angled one palm above the other.

I’d already asked about the presumably nonexistent enemy, and I knew the mission was to poke our collective nose into this wreck. But I hadn’t asked about time. “How long do we have down there?” I didn’t know the answer, but I knew blasting off from the moon to rendezvous with the capsule was a critical, sophisticated game, even with forties ‘puters.

Howard shifted his gaze to Metzger.

Metzger shrugged. “Long enough.”

They knew more than they were telling me. I looked from one to the other. Metzger looked away.

Before I could get pissy with them over the secrecy, it was time to struggle into our extravehicular-activity suits while Metzger inserted Apollo into lunar orbit.

My EVA suit still reeked of ammonia inside. You’d think if they send you to save the world, they wouldn’t make you wear somebody’s stinking pajamas.

Metzger’s voice crackled inside my new helmet as he closed the hatch between us three, stuffed in the LEM, and the now-uninhabited Apollo. “Disengaging LEM.”

A faint thump disconnected us from our way home. Tang ate at my stomach lining.

The descent to the moon was slow. Since we had now strapped bouncing Howard to the LEM wall, I got to stand at the window and watch the Sea of Fertility rush up to greet us.

Flat as the sea looked from space, it spread cobble-strewn and undulating. We closed in, and I realized the cobbles were as big as Dumpsters. The last fifty feet our engine kicked up dust, so I saw nothing. Obviously, Metzger couldn’t, either. If we roosted on a boulder, the LEM could topple, tear out its insides, or just break something vital to us getting home. I clutched a stanchion and gritted my teeth.

Thump.

Just like that, we were down. Metzger made it seem cake.

Metzger ran system checks while Howard and I waited in a two-man line. Metzger had to operate the ship, and Howard was never the first to do anything physical. So I would be the first human to touch the moon since the days when major-league baseball used wooden bats.

As I waited I thought of something. “Metzger? How do we pee?”

“Use the little condom thingy in the leg. You hooked it up, didn’t you?”

Air bled from the lock.

“What thingy?”

“Sorry. Should’ve told you. Just hold it.”

He opened the hatch.

Before me another world, as dead and white as bones, stretched to a black horizon. I turned around, felt for the descent ladder’s first rung, then stepped into airless nothing cold enough to freeze helium.