She stood quickly, wanting to get away from her reflected image. As she did she saw the little spiral-bound notebook on top of the laundry container, and she picked it up because it did not belong there. When she opened it automatically, wondering what to do with it, she saw that the pages were covered with rows of neat calculations, more strangely shaped symbols than numbers. She closed it quickly and went to her room, shutting the door and pressing her back to it, the notebook held tight against her breasts.

If emotion can be said to replace the logical order of rational thinking, this was surely one of the times. Baxter had scarcely bothered her of late, but she was not really thinking about Baxter. Or about America and Denmark, or loyalty or patriotism. She was thinking about Nils and what she had seen and, perhaps, though she was not aware of it, she wanted to hurt him in the way he had hurt her.

It was all quite easy to do. Locking the door behind her, Martha went to her bureau and took the camera out oi the drawer. She had put film in it just yesterday, getting ready for Nils’s homecoming, fast color film to make a permanent record of this holiday. There was a patch of sunlight on the rug by the bed, streaming in the open window. She put the notebook on the floor and opened it to the first page. When she sat on the edge of the bed above. it and looked through the viewfinder it was just right. Jusi one meter, the closest she could take a picture without blurring it. The image of the pages was sharp and clear and the camera automatically set the exposure.

click

She advanced the film, bent over to turn the page, the braced her elbows on her knees again.

There were still ten frames left when she finished the last page. So she took pictures of the back and front covers because she hated to waste film. Then she realized that this was just being foolish, so she closed the camera case and put it back into the drawer. She took the notebook and unlocked the door and went out, and met Arnie coming up the stairs.

“Martha,” he said, blinking in the darkness after the glare outside. “I woke up suddenly and realized that I had misplaced my notebook.”

She shrank back slighdy, her hand—and the notebook—pressed tightly to her.

‘There it is!” he said, and pointed. He smiled. “How nice of you to find it for me.”

“I was taking it to your room,” she said in a voice that sounded shrill and artificial, but he did not seem to notice. She held it out.

“And right you were too. If Skou found it lying around he would probably have me returned to the Moon at once. Thank you. I shall just lock it in my case so I will not be this foolish again. I am sorry I fell asleep like that. Some guest! But I feel much better for it. It has been a wonderful day.”

She nodded slow agreement as he went into his room.

The Jaguar saloon moved steadily north along the coast, staying exacdy at the posted speed limit. Nils drove easily with one hand while he tried to find some music on the radio.

“We are starting out a little late,” he said. “Do you have to stop in Helsingor?”

“I have to go to the post office. It will only take a minute,” Martha said.

“What’s so important?” He found a Swedish station that was playing a peasant polka, all yipping and stomping.

“I have to send off some film for developing.”

“What’s wrong with the photography shop next to the grocer in Rungsted?”

“They’re too slow. This is a special place in Copenhagen. If you think 111 make you late just drop me off by the ferry and you can go on by yourself.”

He took a quick look out of the corner of his eye, but she was looking ahead, her face expressionless.

“Come on! This is a holiday—of course I’ll wait. I just don’t want us to miss the launching—or ascension or whatever you want to call it. You’ll love it. These tugs will just drift down and latch onto the ship and lift it right up out of the ways. They’ll install the drive on the Moon.”

They had to wait at the ferry slip while a fussy little steam engine pulled a string of Swedish boxcars across the road.

“Look at that yard donkey,” Nils said. “Leaking steam and oil from every joint—and still dragging trains off the ferry. Do you know how old it is?” Martha apparently did not know, nor did she appear too interested in the answer.

“I’ll tell you. It’s on that plate on the side of the cab. Eighteen ninety-two that antique was built, and still on the job. We Danes never throw anything away while it still works. A very practical people.”

“As opposed to we Americans who build cars and things to break down at once and be discarded?”

He did not answer, but drove past the station and turned down Jernbanevej to the post office at the rear of the terminal. He parked and she got out, carrying the small package. Film. He wondered how long she had had it in the camera. She certainly had not taken any pictures since this holiday began. Some holiday. Bitchy, he thought, during my entire leave. He wondered what could possibly be bothering her; he could think of nothing. He saw that he had parked next to a hot dog stand, and his stomach gave an interested rumble at the sight. They would be sure to have a late lunch and he ought to be prepared. He went in and ordered two of them—raw onion, ketchup and mustard—then canceled the onion when he remembered that they would be at the launching with all the politicians and bigwigs. He had to remember this place; they had beer too, so he washed the polser down with a cold bottle of Tuborg Gold.

What was the matter with Martha? She was not unresponsive, but there was a coldness that made her roll away from him in bed at night. Perhaps it was the tension of the Moon flights, the sabotage and all that. You never could tell about women. Funny damn creatures. Given to moods. He saw her coming out of the post office and hurriedly finished the beer.

Nils never had a moment of doubt. Nor had he once, ever since that Sunday afternoon, ever even thought about Inger.

It was almost noon, so that here on the equator, at midsummer, the temperature had shot up to almost 30 degrees below freezing. The hill, realty one flank of a great circular crater, rose up sharply from the plain. A much shrunken sun glared down on the frozen landscape from a black sky, where the brightest stars could be easily seen. Only at the horizon was the atmosphere dense enough to trace a thin line of blue against the sky. The air was still, with a timeless silence, so thin, almost pure carbon dioxide, that it was almost not air at all. And very, very cold.

The two men climbing the steep slope had hard going despite the lower gravity. Their heavily insulated, electrically heated clothing hampered their movements; their battery packs and oxygen tanks weighed them down. When they reached the crest they stopped, gratefully, to rest. Their features were hidden by their masks and goggles.

“That’s quite a climb,” Arnie said, gasping for breath.

No expression could be seen on Nils’s shrouded face, but his voice was worried. “I hope it wasn’t too much. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you?”

“Fine. Just out of breath. And out of shape. It has been too long since I have done anything like this. But it is worth it, really, a simply magnificent sight”

The silent landscape reduced them, too, to silence. Chill, dark, alien, a planet that had not died because it had never been born. The tiny settlement below was like a welcoming light in a window, a single touch of warmth in the eternal cold of Mars. Arnie looked around—then stepper quickly aside, beckoning Nils after him.

“Is anything wrong?” Nils asked.