“It would depend partly on your ingenuity, I suppose. Do you expect to prove the theories of this man, Lamont?”

“Or disprove them. Perhaps.”

“You’ll disprove them, if anything at all. I have no fears about that.”

Denison said, “It’s quite clear, isn’t it, that I’m not a physicist by training? Why do you so readily offer me working-space?”

“Because you’re from Earth. I told you that we value that, and perhaps your self-education as a physicist will be of additional value. Selene vouches for you, something I attach more importance to than I should, perhaps. And we are fellow-sufferers at the hands of Hallam. If you wish to rehabilitate yourself, we will help you.”

“But pardon me if I am cynical. What do you expect to get out of it?”

“Your help. There is a certain amount of misunderstanding between the scientists of the Earth and the Moon. You are a man of Earth who has come voluntarily to the Moon and you could act as a bridge between us to the benefit of both. You have already had contact with the new Commissioner and it may be possible that, as you rehabilitate yourself, you will rehabilitate us as well.”

“You mean that if what I do weakens Hallam’s influence, that will benefit Lunar science as well.”

“Whatever you do is sure to be useful.... But perhaps I ought to leave you to catch up with your sleep. Call on me during the next couple of days and I will see about placing you in a laboratory. And”—he looked about—“getting you somewhat more comfortable quarters as well.”

They shook hands and Neville left.

Gottstein said, “I suppose that, however annoying this position of yours may have been, you are getting ready to leave it today with a small pang.”

Montez shrugged eloquently. “A very large pang, when I think of the return to full gravity. The difficulty of breathing—the aching feet—the perspiration. I’ll be a bath of perspiration constantly.”

“It will be my turn someday.”

“Take my advice. Never stay here longer than two months at a time. I don’t care what the doctors tell you or what kind of isometric exercises they put you through— get back to Earth every sixty days and stay at least a week. You’ve got to keep the feel of it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.... Oh, I’ve been in touch with my friend.”

“Which friend is that?”

“The man who was on the vessel with me when I came in. I thought I remembered him and I did. A man named Denison; a radiochemist. What I remembered of him was accurate enough.”

“Ah?”

“I remembered a certain interesting irrationality of his, and tried to probe it. He resisted in quite a shrewd fashion. He sounded rational; so rational, in fact, that I grew suspicious. There’s a kind of attractive rationality developed by certain types of crackpots; a kind of defense mechanism.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Montez, clearly harassed. “I’m not sure I follow you. If you don’t mind, I’m going to sit down for a moment. Between trying to determine whether everything is properly packed and thinking about Earth’s gravity, I’m out of breath.... What kind of irrationality?”

“He tried to tell us once that there was danger in the use of the Electron Pumps. He thought it would blow up the Universe.”

“Indeed? And will it?”

“I hope not. At the time it was dismissed rather brusquely. When scientists work on a subject at the limit of understanding, they grow edgy, you know. I knew a psychiatrist once who called it the ‘Who knows?’ phenomenon. If nothing you do will give you the knowledge you need, you end by saying, ‘Who knows what will happen?’ and imagination tells you.”

“Yes, but if physicists go around saying such things, even a few of them—”

“But they don’t. Not officially. There’s such a thing as scientific responsibility and the journals are careful not to print nonsense. ... Or what they consider nonsense. Actually, you know, the subject’s come up again. A physicist named Lament spoke to Senator Hurt, to that self-appointed environmental messiah, Chen, and to a few others. He also insists on the possibility of cosmic explosion. No one believes him but the story spreads in a thin sort of way and gets better with the retelling.”

“And this man here on the Moon believes it.”

Gottstein smiled broadly. “I suspect he does. Hell, in the middle of the night, when I have trouble sleeping—I keep falling out of bed, by the way—I believe it myself. He probably hopes to test the theory experimentally, here.”

“Well?”

“Well, let him. I hinted we would help him.”

Montez shook his head. “That’s risky. I don’t like the official encouragement of crackpot notions.”

“You know, it’s just barely possible they may not be entirely crackpot, but that’s not the point. The point is that if we can get him established here on the Moon, we may find out, through him, what’s going on here. He’s anxious for rehabilitation and I hinted that rehabilitation would come through us if he cooperated.... I’ll see to it that you are discreetly kept posted. As between friends, you know.”

“Thank you,” said Montez. “And good-by.”

Neville chafed. “No. I don’t like him.”

“Why not? Because he’s an Earthie?” Selene brushed a bit of fluff from her right breast, then caught it and looked at it critically. “That’s not from my blouse. I tell you the air-recirculation is abominable.”

“This Denison is worthless. He is not a para-physicist. He’s a self-educated man in the field, he says, and proves it by coming here with ready-made damn-fool notions.”

“Like what?”

“He thinks that the Electron Pump is going to explode the Universe.”

“Did he say that?”

“I know he thinks that.... Oh, I know the arguments. I’ve heard them often enough. But it’s not so, that’s all.”

“Maybe,” said Selene, raising her eyebrows, “you just don’t want it to be so.”

“Don’t you start,” said Neville.

There was a short pause. Selene said, “Well, what will you do with him?”

“I’ll give him a place to work. He may be worthless as a scientist, but he’ll have his uses just the same. He’ll be conspicuous enough; the Commissioner has been talking to him already.”

“I know.”

“Well, he has a romantic history as someone with a wrecked career trying to rehabilitate himself.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m sure you’ll love it. If you ask him about it, he’ll tell you. And that’s good. If we have a romantic Earthman working on the Moon on a crackpot project, he’ll make a perfect object to preoccupy the Commissioner. He’ll be misdirection; window-dressing. And it may even be that through him, who knows, we might just possibly get a better idea of what goes on there on Earth.... You’d better continue to be friendly with him, Selene.”

Selene laughed, and the sound was metallic in Denison’s earpiece. Her figure was lost in the spacesuit she wore.

She said, “Now come, Ben, there’s no reason to be afraid. You’re an old hand by now—you’ve been here a month.”

“Twenty-eight days,” mumbled Denison. He felt smothered in his own suit.

“A month,” insisted Selene. “It was well past half-Earth when you came; it is well past half-Earth now.” She pointed to the brilliant curve of the Earth in the southern sky.

“Well, but wait. I’m not as brave out here as I am underground. What if I fall?”

“What if you do? The gravity is weak by your standards, the slope is gentle, your suit is strong. If you fall, just let yourself slide and roll. It’s almost as much fun that way, anyhow.”

Denison looked about doubtfully. The Moon lay beautiful in the cold light of the Earth. It was black and white; a mild and delicate white as compared with the Sunlit views he had seen when he had taken a trip a week before to inspect the Solar batteries that stretched from horizon to horizon along the floor of Mare Imbrium. And the black was somehow softer, too, through lack of the blazing contrast of true day. The stars were supernally bright and the Earth—the Earth—was infinitely inviting with its swirls of white on blue, and its peeping glimpse of tan.