Even though Stomper’s cabin is pressurized, I’m suited up, helmet and all. It’s uncomfortable, but if I have to go outside for emergency maintenance during the race I won’t have to take the time to pull on the cumbersome suit.
Selene City is built into the base of Mount Yeager, the tallest mountain in the ringwall of the giant crater Alphonsus. Two-thirds of the way across the crater floor lie the remains of Ranger 9, one of the early unmanned probes from back in the days before Armstrong and Aldrin landed over in the Sea of Tranquility.
There’s been some talk about expanding Selene beyond Alphonsus’s ringwall, going out onto the Mare Nubium and even farther. But so far it’s only talk. Selene is restricted to Alphonsus, for now.
I figure the run out to the Ranger 9 site and back to Selene’s main airlock should take on the order of ten hours. Zeke Browkowski will try to make it faster, of course. Knowing him, I’ll bet he’s souped up Dash-nine with extra fuel cells, even though that’s against the race rules.
Harry teaches mechanical design at the university, from his wheelchair. He had the ideas for Walker’s Walkers and I did his legwork, so to speak. I’ve got to win this race and show everybody what Stomper can do. Harry can keep his professorship at the university even if we lose. But I’ll have to go back to Detroit, Michigan, USA, Earth. I’ve worked too long and too hard to go back to that cesspool.
I need to win this race!
Stomper’s lumbering along like some monster in a horror vid. Sitting five meters above the ground, I can see Zeke’s Dash-nine pulling farther ahead of us, kicking up a cloud of dust as it rolls across the crater floor on its big springy wheels. In the Moon’s low gravity the dust just hangs there like a lazy cloud.
“Come on, Stomper,” I mutter to myself as we galumph past the solar-cell farms spread out on the crater floor. “It’s now or never.” I nudge the throttle a notch higher.
Stomper’s six legs speed up, but not by much. It’s like sitting on top of a big mechanical turtle with six heavy metal feet. I have to be careful: if I push too hard I could burn out a bearing. Stomper’s slow enough on six legs; if we lose one we’ll be out of it altogether.
Zeke’s pulling farther ahead while ol’ Stomper’s six feet pound along the dusty bare ground. Lots of little pockmark craterlets scattered across the floor of Alphonsus, and plenty of rocks, some big as houses. Stomper’s automated guidance sensors walk us around the more dangerous ones, but I get a kick out of smashing the smaller stones into powder.
It’s a real hoot, sitting five meters tall with Stomper’s control panel spread out in front of me, feeling all that power, watching the rock-strewn ground go by. Harry would love to be up here, I bet, in control even though his own legs are useless.
Stomper has a lot of power, all right, but not enough speed to catch Dash-nine or even the slower vehicles. Like the turtle against a quintet of hares. But I have a plan. I’m going to take a shortcut.
The race’s official course from Selene’s main airlock to the Ranger 9 site is a dogleg shape, because the buggies have to detour around the hump of rugged hills in the center of Alphonsus. I figure that ol’ Stomper can climb those hills, thread through ’em and get to the Ranger 9 site ahead of everybody else. Then I’ll come back the same way and win the race!
That’s my plan.
For now I follow the trail of lighted poles that mark the race course. Dash-nine is so far ahead that all I can see of Browkowski is a cloud of dust near the short horizon. Three of the other vehicles are ahead of me, too, but I see that the fourth one of them is stopped dead, its two-man crew outside in their suits, bending over a busted track.
I flick to the suit-to-suit frequency and get a blast of choice language from the pair of ’em.
“You guys all right?” I call to them.
Moans and groans and elaborate profanity. But neither one of them is hurt and Selene’s already sending a repair tractor to pick them up.
I push on. I can see the tired old slumped hills of the crater’s central peak rising just over the horizon. I turn Stomper toward them.
Instantly my earphones sing out, “Taylor Reed, you’re veering off course.” Janine’s voice. She sounds upset.
“I’m taking a shortcut,” I say.
“That’s not allowed, Taylor.”
The race controller is Janine Al-Jabbar, as sweet and lovely a lady as you could find. But now she sounds uptight, almost fearful.
“I’ve studied the rules,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm, “and there’s nothing in ’em says you have to follow the course they’ve laid out.”
“It’s a safety regulation,” she answers, sounding even more worried. “You can’t go off on your own.”
“Janine, there’s no problem with safety. Ol’ Stomper can—”
A man’s voice breaks in. “Taylor Reed, get back on course or you’re disqualified!”
That’s Mance Brunner, the director of the race. He’s also chancellor of Selene University. Very important person, and he knows it.
“Disqualified?” My own voice comes out as a mouse squeak. “You can’t disqualify me just because—”
“Get back on course, Reed,” says Brunner, less excited but harder, colder. “Otherwise I’ll have no option except to disqualify you.”
I take a deep breath, then I reply as calmly as I can, “Sir, I am continuing on my own course. This is not a safety risk, nor is it grounds—”
He doesn’t even hear me out. “You’re disqualified, Reed!”
“But—”
“Attention all vehicles,” Brunner announces. “Taylor Reed in vehicle oh-four is hereby disqualified.”
None of the other racers says a word, except for Zeke Browkowski, who snickers, “Bye-bye, turtle guy.”
To say I am pissed off is putting it very mildly. Brunner never did like me, but what he’s just done is about as low and rotten as you can get. And there’s no way around it, he’s the race director. There’s no court of appeals. If he says I’m out, I’m out.
Stomper’s still clunking along, but I reach for the control yoke to turn us around and head back to Selene.
But I hesitate. Disqualify me, huh? Okay, so I’m disqualified. I’m not going to let that stop me. Brunner can yell all he wants to, I’m going to push through those hills and prove my point, even if it’s just to myself.
Janine’s voice comes back in my earphones, low and kind of sad. “I’m sorry, Tay. He was standing right over my shoulder. There was nothing I could do.”
“Not your fault, Janine,” I tell her. “You didn’t do anything to feel sorry about.”
