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think that was a very good
     idea.”
    He twisted round to see what busy-body was spying on him, but his angry protest died
     unborn. On his first quick inspection, Harris had recognised none of the passengers;
     now, however, he could tell that there was something vaguely familiar about the stocky,
     grey-haired man who had come forward to the driver’s position.
    “I don’t want to intrude, Captain—you’re the skipper here. But I thought I’d better
     introduce myself in case I can help. I’m Commodore Hansteen.”
    Harris stared, slack-jawed, at the man who had led the first expedition to Pluto,
     who had probably landed on more virgin planets and moons than any explorer in history.
     All he could say to express his astonishment was, “You weren’t down on the passenger
     list!”
    The Commodore smiled.
    “My
alias
is Hanson. Since I retired, I’ve been trying to do a little sightseeing without quite
     so much responsibility. And now that I’ve shaved off my beard, no one ever recognises
     me.”
    “I’m very glad to have you here,” said Harris with deep feeling. Already some of the
     weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders; the Commodore would be a tower of
     strength in the difficult hours—or days—that lay ahead.
    “If you don’t mind,” continued Hansteen, with that same careful politeness. “I’d appreciate
     an evaluation. To put it bluntly, how long can we last?”
    “Oxygen’s the limiting factor, as usual. We’ve enough for about seven days, assuming
     that no leaks develop. So far, there are no signs of any.”
    “Well, that gives us time to think. What about food and water?”
    “We’ll be hungry, but we won’t starve. There’s an emergency reserve of compressed
     food, and of course the air-purifiers will produce all the water we need. So there’s
     no problem there.”
    “Power?”
    “Plenty, now that we’re not using our motors.”
    “I notice that you haven’t tried to call Base.”
    “It’s useless; the dust blankets us completely. I’ve put the beacon on emergency—that’s
     our only hope of getting a signal through, and it’s a slim one.”
    “So they’ll have to find us in some other way. How long do you think it will take
     them?”
    “That’s extremely difficult to say. The search will begin as soon as our 20.00 hours
     transmission is missed, and they’ll know our general area. But we may have gone down
     without leaving any trace—you’ve seen how this dust obliterates everything. And even
     when they
do
find us—”
    “—how will they get us out?”
    “Exactly.”
    Skipper of twenty-seat dust-cruiser and Commodore of Space stared at each other in
     silence, as their minds circled the same problem. Then, cutting across the low murmur
     of conversation, they heard a very English voice call out: “I say, Miss—this is the
     first decent cup of tea I’ve drunk on the Moon. I thought no one could make it here;
     my congratulations.”
    The Commodore chuckled quietly.
    “He ought to thank
you
, not the stewardess,” he said, pointing to the pressure gauge.
    Pat smiled rather wanly in return. That was true enough; now that he had put up the
     cabin pressure, water must be boiling at nearly its normal, sea-level temperature
     back on Earth. At last they could have some hot drinks—not the usual tepid ones. But
     it did seem a somewhat extravagant way to make tea, not unlike the reputed Chinese
     method of roasting pig by burning down the entire house.
    “Our big problem,” said the Commodore (and Pat did not in the least resent that ‘our’),
     “is to maintain morale. I think it’s important, therefore, for you to give a pep-talk
     about the search procedure that must be starting now. But don’t be
too
optimistic; you mustn’t give the impression that someone will be knocking on the
     door inside half an hour. That might make it difficult if—well, if we have to wait
     several days.”
    “It won’t take me long to describe the