Any word from them yet, sir? Asked Sparks eagerly

Any word from them yet, sir? Asked Sparks eagerly

“Not yet. But we’re expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones! Where are you going?”

“Why — why, just back to my quarters, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?”

Isobar said stubbornly, “Well, I sort of figured I’d amuse myself for a while — “

“I thought that, too. And with what, pray, Jones?”

“With the only dratted thing,” said Isobar, suddenly petulant, “that gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.”

Commander Eagan said, “You’d better find some new way of amusing yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?”

Isobar said, “I saw it. But if you think — “

“It says,” stated Eagan deliberately, “ so that work or rest periods of the Dome’s staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby ordered that the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments must be discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander,’ That means you, Jones!”

“But, dingbust it!” keened Isobar, “it doesn’t disturb nobody for me to play my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don’t appreciate good music, so I always go to my office and lock the door after me — “

“But the Dome,” pointed out Commander Eagan, “has an air-conditioning system which can’t be shut off. The ungodly moans of your — er — so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entire structure.”

He suddenly seemed to gain stature.

“No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entire organization for your own — er — amusement.”

“But — “ said Isobar.

Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already. If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the previous amusement which lightened his moments of freedom —

“Look, Commander!” he pleaded, “I tell you what I’ll do. I won’t bother anybody. I’ll go outside and play it — “

“Outside!” Eagan stared at him incredulously. “Are you mad? How about the Grannies?”

Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of life found by space-questing man on Earth’s satellite, their name was an abbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunar explorers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it was an understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of specific low intelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding, and implacable foe.

Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had ever yet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; science was completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition of Graniteback physiology — but it was known, from bitter experience, that the carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of something more complex than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could be penetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame, by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discovered atomo-needle dispenser.

All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:

“They ain’t been any Grannies seen around the Dome,” he said, “for a ‘coon’s age. Anyhow, if I saw any comin’, I could run right back inside — “

“No!” said Commander Eagan flatly. “Absolutely, no! I have no time for such nonsense. You know the orders — obey them! And now, gentlemen, good afternoon!”

He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.

“Well,” he said, “one man’s fish — hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can’t play your doodlesack anymore, but frankly, I’m just as glad. Of all the awful screeching wails — “

But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfect fury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and from his lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley looked startled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violent profanity.

“Oh, dagnab it!” fumed Isobar Jones. “Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh — fiddlesticks!”

“And so,” chuckled Riley, “he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.”

Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr. Loesch, head of the Dome’s Physics Research Division. The older man nodded commiseratingly.

“It is funny, yes,” he agreed, “but at the same time it is not altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a wretched man, our poor Isobar.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Riley, “but, hell, we all get a little bit homesick now and then. He ought to learn to — “

“Excuse me, my boy,” interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle, “it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz. There is no accurate English translation. It means ‘world sickness,’ or better, ‘world weariness’ — something like that, but intensified a thousandfold.

“It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world in which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide … mad acts of valor … deeds of cunning or knavery….”

“You mean,” demanded Sparks anxiously, “Isobar ain’t got all his buttons?”

“Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger — By the way, where is he now?”

“Below, I guess. In his quarters.”

“Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber, he will find peace and forgetfulness.”

But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the “giftie gi’en” him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.

“Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren’t you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?”

“I ain’t,” puzzled Wilkins, “heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office?”

And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. “That — er — won’t be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I’ll watch this entrance for you.”

“We-e-ell,” said Wilkins, “if you say so. Orders are orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like.”

“I will,” promised Isobar, “don’t worry.”

Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was entirely out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped through, and closed it behind him.

A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin but fragrant with the scent of growing things, stirred his pulse with joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was outside, in good sunlight, at last! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the lunar valley….

How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees formed a lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, and the chirping of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes created a tiny symphony of happiness that accompanied him as he moved, charmed.

Isobar was not asleep, far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit.

Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straight to the cabinet where his precious set of bagpipes was encased. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.

“So I can’t play you, huh?” he muttered darkly. “It disturbs the peace o’ the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we’ll see about that!”

And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the massive impervious gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside.

On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent to the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted so that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. The sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.

Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety.

“Very well, Wilkins,” he said. “I’ll take over now. You may go to the meeting.”

Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.

“Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?”

Isobar’s eyebrows arched.

“You mean you haven’t been notified?”

“Notified of what?”