TROUBLE ON TYCHO
By NELSON S. BOND
Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of
the Moon Station's existence. But there came
the day when his comrades found that the worth
of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories March 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
"Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.
"Report ready, Jones?"
"Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—"
"Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all."
"That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag—?"
It was all, so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots: MaxFreq.—Min. Freq.; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.
"Weather forecast for Terra," he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.
"O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!"
"I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.
"Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. "You, Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—"
The Dome Commander's niece giggled.
"That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice."
"It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go."
"That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.
If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as "Isobar"to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
"Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked upin an airtight Dome li