THE REFUGEES FROM COSMOPOLIS entered the old glass lodge on the edge of Crater Copernicus. Governor Tang led the way into the airlock, then came Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, then Xing-Xing and Taji, then Byron leading Lucky—who couldn’t see due to the dried vomit inside his helmet.
Once indoors, the governor’s first order of business was firing up the early-model atomic generator: this brought up the lights and revealed the lodge to be surprisingly cozy in décor, not unlike a ski lodge at the top of an alp.
Next the governor worked the main valve on a row of interlinked oxygen canisters, flooding the room with breathable air; and after that he touched a button beside the stone fireplace, which started up a gas flame and contributed to the room’s comfy ambience.
Soon the wall-mounted oxometer blinked green, signaling that helmets could be safely removed. This meant the most to Lucky, who could now separate himself from the puke that had dried inside his helmet and blinded him during the trip here. He was still feeling faintly queasy from being subjected to Byron’s high-speed driving in the moon buggy, but at least the urge to heave had eased off. So he sat himself down in a wingback chair by the fireplace to calm his nerves while his traveling companions explored the lodge’s facilities …
Mrs. Barnett went directly into the kitchen where she found stores of vacuum-sealed food in metallic packets. Xing-Xing went to examine a rack of rifle-sized goo guns, each with the distinctive corkscrew barrel; and the governor was already fiddling at the old space-radio. Before long he found the right frequency. Everyone else stopped what they were doing to listen as he spoke into the microphone:
“Come in, EarthCom, this is Governor Tang of the Lunar League, transmitting from the Moon.”
He waited a moment, then tried it again:
“EarthCom, come in. This is Governor Jing Tang of the Lunar League transmitting a Priority Alpha distress message from the Moon.”
What followed was a hideous silence of twelve seconds during which it seemed that the space-radio might not be working, meaning the Tangs, the Barnetts, and the von Stroganoff would not be able to call for help and might never be heard from again. Then a voice crackled through the small speaker:
“This is EarthCom. We read you, Mr. Governor.”
“EarthCom, thank goodness!”
“Sorry about that delay. We’re in the middle of an electrical storm down here in Banana Bread and it’s scrambling our circuits. We had to switch over to a relay via Australia to get our signal back up to you.”
“Understood, EarthCom.”
“Mr. Governor, what is your status?”
“We’re a group of seven persons stranded outside Cosmopolis. I’m requesting a rescue-rocket for emergency evacuation.”
“Roger that. We have several rescue-rockets presently deployed in Earth orbit—the flagship is under the command of Admiral Haddad herself. Patching you through now.”
Fleet Admiral Zahra Haddad, whose previous job had been head of the Middle Eastern Air Force, now wore the violet uniform of the Astral Corps, of which she was the top officer. At the moment though she wasn’t on the bridge of her ship, she was in its massive cargo hold, helping evacuees from the Moon cross over from their space-raft through a transfer tube. The captains of half a dozen other rescue-rockets were doing likewise nearby, emptying the space-raft of its thousands of passengers.
Together with Deputy Olafsson, Admiral Haddad had just given a hand to an elderly lunar lady who was having trouble with the last step out of the transfer tube when an aide appeared carrying a portable transceiver and explaining who was on the line. The admiral immediately shifted her attention over to this new matter, stepping away with Deputy Olafsson and speaking into the device:
“Governor Tang, this is Admiral Haddad on the line. What a relief to know you’re alive!”
“The relief is all mine, Admiral Haddad. So what’s your schedule looking like? Any chance you can fit in a rescue operation? We’re at the old Governor’s Lodge at the edge of Crater Copernicus.”
The admiral turned to Deputy Olafsson, who confirmed:
“I know the spot.”
“Roger that, Mr. Governor,” said the admiral. “We’re just collecting the evacuees from your space-raft now. But I’m afraid this barrage of meteoroids is going to block us from reaching the Moon for another ten or twelve hours. How’s your oxygen supply looking? Can you wait out the day if need be?”
“We have air to breathe all weekend.”
“Excellent. We’ll get to you the minute it’s clear. Signing off for now.”
Governor Tang replaced the radio’s microphone on its hook and told his fellow refugees:
“Now we wait.”
“Is anyone else peckish?” Lucky called over from his chair by the fireplace. “I’m in the mood for a nibble.”
“I’m peckish,” Byron agreed, shooting his hand up.
“I think we could all use a nice hot meal,” Mrs. Barnett said. She stepped into the kitchen again, telling the group: “Everyone just relax for half an hour and then we’ll eat.”
With his mother busy whipping up a meal, Taji intended to spend the free time with Xing-Xing. He joined her on the love seat by the fireplace where she was warming her hands.
“So, Xing-Xing, back in the big dome you stopped me from being sucked into space by firing that goo-gun. You know what that means.”
“Um, you’re welcome?”
“It means you have to go out with me now.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“Well, what’s the point of saving my life if you’re not gonna make the rest of the life you saved me for worth living?”
“Taji, your logic is never easy to follow.”
“All right, all right! You drive a hard bargain, but yes! I’ll give you another kiss to help you make up your mind about me!”
Xing-Xing tried hard not to smile, but she couldn’t stop herself and broke out in a beautiful little laugh. Then she let Taji kiss her. Afterwards he said:
“That’s absolutely the last freebie you’re getting out of me! Now decide!”
“Don’t you think we have bigger problems to solve right now than whether or not I’m going on a date with you?”
“Like I always say: if you take care of your love life, everything else falls into place.”
Their chitchat, the stuff of a budding romance, continued in this vein for several minutes, while nearby Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, who were setting the table together, found themselves further down the line of love.
“Are you sorry you married me?” Mr. Barnett said.
“Wallace! How could you ever think such a thing?”
“Well … I am the man who dragged you to the Moon just in time for the worst natural disaster in the history of the solar system.”
“No one’s dead and no one’s hurt. The rescue-rocket is coming and we have plenty of oxygen to last until it gets here. We’ll be fine.”
“Then again, if you hadn’t married me, you could’ve had your own life of personal fame and fortune.”
Mrs. Barnett set down her stack of plates, circled around to her husband on the opposite side of the table, and placed her hands on both his cheeks. “My family is my fortune,” she said. “I knew just what I wanted and I settled for nothing less. Now shut up and kiss me.”
Mr. Barnett pulled her in for a kiss; then he hugged her, giving her a really good squeeze.
“Too tight?” he asked in mid-hug.
“Never,” she whispered.
Around this time Byron found himself in the mood for a spot of conversation. But José Ignacio had plugged his power cord into an outlet on the lodge’s antiquated atomic generator for a recharge and wasn’t in a conversational modality, so Byron was forced to look around for someone else to shoot the breeze with …
Taji was flirting with Xing-Xing on a love seat, so he was out of the running. Byron’s parents were busy in the kitchen fixing lunch. Governor Tang might’ve been good for a bit of banter, but he was in the library nook going through the book collection. Which left only Lucky. He was sitting by a picture window, cleaning the puke out of his helmet. Byron ambled over and sat down beside him.
“I wish we had appetizers,” Lucky said. “I’m not sure I can last until lunch.”
Byron remembered the half a Space Cake in his belt buckle. He turned away from Lucky, slid open the buckle’s secret compartment, extracted the Cake still in its foil wrapper, turned back to Lucky, and offered it up. “Venusian Vanilla,” he said.
“Are you sure? You’re hungry too.”
“Your stomach’s emptier. I can wait.”
Lucky accepted the half a treat with a grateful nod. “Very kind of you,” he said.
The truth was: Byron was good at sharing, even when snacks were involved. José Ignacio himself, who would happily give you a complete list of Byron’s character flaws if asked, would also, if pressed, admit that Byron was, on the plus side of things, surprisingly generous.
With Lucky nibbling the Space Cake, Byron turned away again, this time to look out the window. Sunlight was blasting the floor of Crater Copernicus like a silver spotlight running at a million mega-volts. “Zanzibar!” he murmured, deeply moved by the splendor of this epic dimple on the Moon.
Lucky finished his snack, licked a vanilla crumb off his lips, and gave Byron the once-over. “I like the cobalt-blue,” he said, meaning Byron’s hair.
“Thank you! Finally! Someone who knows the difference between royal blue and cobalt blue!”
“In fact,” Lucky observed, “your hair has a sheen not unlike that of the cobalt-blue tarantula. You don’t find that on too many heads.”
Byron’s mouth popped open in shock. No one else had ever made the connection between his signature hair color and the sheen of his favorite member of the spider family. He had to always tell people. And even then they frequently didn’t get it. Until now. Lucky may’ve had a vomiting problem, but he clearly wasn’t all bad.
“And I suppose I should thank you too,” Lucky said, “for helping me save my diamonds. And for saving me from the wrath of Papa.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Lucky wiping out his helmet, Byron gazing at Crater Copernicus. Then Byron asked:
“Why do you say ‘Pa-PAH’ instead of PAH-pa?”
“That’s just the way I pronounce it.”
“Well, why’s he so mad at you anyway? I mean, how bad were you?”
“Bad.”
“What’d you do?”
Lucky took a big breath and exhaled musically. “I told you that Papa is a gem dealer and diamond-cutter. Well, I was a diamond-cutter-in-training. It takes years of practice to be able to put a mallet to a rough stone and whack it right.”
“And you whacked it wrong?”
“Byron, how good is your imagination?”
“Good.”
“Then let me set the scene for you. I’d been out cavorting with friends, and we’d drunk one round too many of coconut schnapps …”
(In Byron’s brain a picture flared of Lucky & Company stumbling out the door of a tavern in London, England, dressed like musketeers, wearing velvet top hats with feathers sewn onto the sides and drinking alcoholic beverages out of real coconuts, through swirly straws.)
“… and somehow the idea popped into my head that the perfect way to end the evening would be to show off my diamond-cutting skills.”
Byron pictured Big Ben chiming midnight. In his mind’s eye he flew up the side of the famous clock tower, then in through a window near the top. This, he imagined, was where Lucky lived. On the inside it was half Arabian tent, half safari tent, decorated with crazy carpets on the floor and hanging on the walls. Plus Lucky’s pet was a baby leopard.
“So in my state of extreme tiddliness,” Lucky said, “I took a hugely valuable stone out of Papa’s vault, sat my friends down to watch, raised my mallet … and turned a million-credit diamond into a mound of diamond dust.”
“Ooh, that is bad,” Byron admitted, scrunching his face. “You know what, you really don’t have the right name for a person with your track record. Instead of Lucky von Stroganoff, maybe you could change it to—
“Barfy von Puke-A-Lot?” José Ignacio offered from his seat by the atomic generator. Byron turned to glare at the robot, though Lucky, following Byron’s gaze, saw only the little toy robot on a chair across the room.
“Pukey von Throw-It-Up?” José Ignacio continued. “Hurly von Spew-A-Chunk?”
Byron shook his head at the robot’s juvenile humor and turned back to Lucky.
“What I mean is, you need a whole new name to give you a whole new attitude. Something like … ‘Rodrigo Dragonsmasher.’ ”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“I will.”
“So what happened after you broke the diamond?”
“Papa demoted me to errand boy. I’ve been picking up packages ever since.” He reached for his case of diamonds. “So you see why I couldn’t lose these: it would’ve been the end of me.” He opened the case and showed Byron an array of gemstones glittering in their velvet bed.
José Ignacio piped up from across the room:
“I’ve never understood why humans go gaga over diamonds in the first place. They’re just carbon atoms bonded together in a tetrahedral lattice. Big deal.”
“How rude!” Byron shot back. “Mr. von Stroganoff is in the diamond business. You can’t insult people’s jobs! And for your information, humans love diamonds because they’re sparkly and look great on turbans and belt buckles! Something you wouldn’t understand because you’re an overgrown transistor who doesn’t wear clothes!”
Byron turned to Lucky and apologized: “Please excuse José Ignacio, he’s not the politest robot ever built. Especially being over seven feet tall, he’s very conceited. He loves the sound of his own voice. Basically he’s a glorified circuit-board with a loudspeaker and a voltage ray. But I’m sorta stuck with him.”
Lucky glanced again at the twelve-inch toy robot on its chair—and grasped the situation. “Yes,” he commiserated, “robots do sometimes have a mind of their own. I entirely understand.”
Byron called over to José Ignacio: “See? Those are called good manners. Try learning some!”
“How did you two end up together?” Lucky said.
“Well, that is a kinda funny story.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Okay, so it was my birthday last year. I was turning nine. And for a present I’d asked my parents if I could have a robot to help me out in my research.”
“Sorry, what research is that?”
“Oh, you know: interdimensional phenomena, dinosaur bones, poltergeists, bubonic plague.”
“Of course.”
“So after my birthday dinner, I blew out the candles on my cake—
“What kind?”
“Devil’s food with root-beer icing.”
“Toppings?”
“Silver sprinkles and maraschino cherries. Plus a graham-cracker spoon to eat it with.”
“Right. Go on.”
“So I blew out the candles and then my parents said my present was in my father’s study, where they’d been keeping it because I’m not allowed to go in there without permission and they know I like to sorta snoop around the house whenever there’s a gift-giving situation coming up.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“So I ran into the study—and there was a crate, eight feet high, waiting for me with a crowbar to open it. Which I did. And inside was José Ignacio. All seven feet and several centimeters of his titanium corpus and golden switches.”
As Byron described meeting his robot for the first time, Lucky realized that in all likelihood what had been waiting in Mr. Barnett’s study was not an eight-foot crate but a nicely wrapped, normal-sized gift box containing the twelve-inch toy robot that was usually hooked to Byron’s belt; but Lucky seemed to appreciate Byron’s story anyway, even with all the embellishments.
“So I switched him on and introduced myself,” Byron said.
Lucky folded his legs into his lap and made himself comfortable in his chair to listen to Byron recap that first conversation between himself and his robot. Here’s how it went:
“Welcome to the Booniverse!” Byron said.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“Wel-come … to … the … Boo-niverse,” Byron repeated slowly, thinking that José Ignacio must need a minute for his audio receptors to ramp up to full speed.
“I apologize for asking,” the robot said, “but are you trying to say ‘universe’? Because I keep hearing a ‘b’ that doesn’t belong there.”
“No, it’s right. The Booniverse.”
“The universe.”
“The Booniverse.”
“Pardon me,” José Ignacio said, “I believe I’m detecting something in the way of a slight speech impediment. Not that that’s anything to be ashamed of: many of the greatest beings in history have had speech impediments. I once knew a robot with a glitch in his programming that made him mix up the sounds in any number of words. So ‘potato’ came out ‘toe-tay-poe’ and ‘joystick’ ‘stoy-jick.’ Instead of ‘chocolate ice cream’ he’d say ‘ock-o-lit chice-cream’ … and for ‘quantum computer’ you’d get ‘cuantum qomputer,’ though you couldn’t really tell the difference on that one. Anyway, he went on to an illustrious career as a molecular nanotechnologist with no problem whatsoever. So you might even consider it a mark of distinction to—
“I don’t have a speech impediment! I’m Byron ‘Boon’ Barnett and I live in the Booniverse! Which is where you live now too!”
“Uh-oh,” said José Ignacio, wondering what was happening here.
Byron shook off his irritation, forced himself to smile, and started over:
“So. As mentioned, my name is Byron Barnett. Known to friends and admirers as Boon. Also known as Master of the Secret Canyon, Nomad in the Ninth Dimension, Steward of the Laser-Dagger, Patron of the Arts Ballistic, Keeper of the Golden Eyeball, Knight Commander of the Order of the Double Quasar, and Envoy Plenipotentiary to the Eleven Deadly Realms.”
“Charmed,” said José Ignacio, though in fact he was whatever the opposite of charmed was.
“Now what are we gonna call you?” Byron said.
“Uh … my name? Which is Zeta-Bitonal-Dyna-Bot, Model 933, Lot 14, Production Cycle: Delta Echo Foxtrot Zulu Lima-Bean, Serial Number 04-12-19-66.”
“Or we could go with … ‘José Ignacio.’ ”
“I beg your pardon?”
“José Ignacio—it’s my uncle on my mom’s side’s name. José Ignacio Barcelona Bolaños. You sorta look like him.”
“Or … we could go with my name.”
“Wait! I have a better idea! We’ll call you ‘ZBDB’! It’s your initials. Zeta-Bitonal-Dyna-Bot. ZBDB! It’s perfect!”
The robot sighed. “I’ll take José Ignacio,” he said.
“Good choice. So. Ready to get started?”
“Just one thing: could you define the ‘Booniverse’ for me? Just so we’re on the same wavelength?”
“Let me put it like this: most people look at the cosmos and say: ‘Oh, my gosh!’ But I look at the cosmos and say: ‘I can fix that!’ ”
“José Ignacio, we have a lot of work to do. You showed up just in time.”
“You know what? I’m thinking there’s been some sort of miscommunication here. I actually requested a bookish-type person, somebody between the ages of sixty and eighty with a love of lying in bed reading long Russian novels. I’m more of a relax-around-the-house-type individual myself who’s not looking to do too much wandering in the ninth dimension or cosmos-repair of any particular degree of difficulty.”
“What do you mean, you requested?” Byron said, both confused and somewhat annoyed. “I requested you. You’re my birthday present.”
“Oh. Wow. That is so carbon-based-life-form of you, thinking about everything from your perspective. No appreciation at all that I come not just from a robot factory but a robot community. And that we get to request who we’re shipped out to just like you get to request who you want shipped in. The paperwork that I filled out made it crystal clear that I was interested in a stay-at-home-type assignment that would be light on legwork and generous on catnaps. This is a two-year lease: can you imagine the nightmare of being paired up with the wrong partner that long? So I have to be candid with you: I don’t see this working out and I’m urging you to crate me back up, send me straight back, and request an exchange.”
“But I scheduled an expedition to By George Gorge for tomorrow! A whole day of digging for buried Spanish treasure! We could come back with a thousand gold coins—or at least a couple dozen ingots! I can’t haul all that metal alone! That’s why I put it on the calendar for the day after you got here, I’ve been planning it for months! It’s my ninth birthday present to myself!”
“But surely you realize that if you switch me into main mode, your contract kicks in and the two-year clock starts ticking on my lease! After that, we’re stuck with each other!”
“Well, then, we’re just gonna have to make it work. The gold in By George Gorge isn’t gonna dig itself, and tomorrow is our one day to get there and drill into the dirt! Anyway, I’m sure we can adjust to each other once we learn our likes and dislikes.”
At this point in his story, Byron admitted to Lucky: “I mighta been wrong about that part.”
And just then Mrs. Barnett sang out:
“Lunch-time!”
Byron abandoned his seat and zipped across the room to the table, where his mother was setting down a steaming tureen.
“I hope everybody likes butternut squash soup, cheese soufflé, and hot Parker House rolls,” she said as the rest of the group took their seats. “It’s the best I could manage on short notice.”
Her modesty notwithstanding, Mrs. Barnett had produced something of a feast. Everyone dug in with the kind of hearty appetites that only escaping certain death can work up in you. Xing-Xing was the first to compliment the chef:
“Mrs. Barnett, this may be the most delicious meal I’ve ever eaten!”
“Really, mom!” Byron chimed in. “And not only cause we’re so hungry!”
Even Lucky raved:
“Mrs. Barnett, this soufflé is a minor masterpiece! How ever did you do it with freeze-dried foodstuffs?”
“Bianca’s a Renaissance woman,” said Mr. Barnett. “She can do anything.”
Byron now caught a glimpse of Governor Tang, seated at the far end of the table, staring right back at him. José Ignacio warned in a whisper:
“He’s giving you the evil eye.”
“No, he isn’t,” Byron whispered back. “I saved his life!”
“Right after you almost killed him by making him sit through a white worm attack because you were AWOL in a cave!”
“He doesn’t even know about the cave! Don’t bring it up!”
“Byron, I have a question for you,” the governor said. Everyone else at the table stopped speaking to hear what it was. “When you said you were chasing the daylight line and lost track of the time, were you within sight of your class?”
Mr. Barnett interjected politely:
“Mr. Governor, I’m sure during his first hour on the surface of the Moon, Byron was careful enough not to stray from the group.”
Governor Tang nodded. Then:
“It’s just I still don’t see how Miss Ahlooloo, who knows the terrain like the back of her hand, lost track of Byron.”
“Well,” Byron conceded with a nervous giggle, “maybe I was doing a little extra exploring.”
“What do you mean, ‘extra’?” Mr. Barnett said.
With great reluctance, Byron admitted: “Well … as I recall, I was at the top of a cliff … and at the bottom there was a canyon … and in the canyon I could see … a cave.”
“Byron!” exclaimed Mrs. Barnett.
“We were on a field trip! I was trying to scoop up as much education out in the field as I could get my hands on!”
With Byron soon defending himself against a round of increasingly tough questioning, it was Xing-Xing who first noticed the danger. Glancing out through the glass walls of the lodge she became aware of very small meteoroid strikes in the distance. It took a second or two to register on her conscious mind, then she jumped up from the table hollering:
“Spacesuits!!!”
The group turned to see another mob of meteoroids shooting down from space—and coming their way. The debate on Byron’s guilt or innocence instantly ceased as everyone jumped from the table and ran for their spacesuits.
“Where’s my helmet?” shouted Lucky in terror. “I can’t find my helmet!”
Xing-Xing took charge of the situation:
“Byron, you help Mr. von Stroganoff find his helmet! Taji, you grab two goo-guns!”
“But we can’t shoot down meteoroids with goo!”
“Just get the guns and follow me!”
Taji grabbed two rifle-sized goo-guns off their rack. Then he and Xing-Xing suited up fast and dashed outside, guns in hand.
“If you hold onto the trigger, the goo keeps coming,” Xing-Xing explained via spacesuit-intercom. “Watch!”
She fired her corkscrew-shaped rifle at an incoming meteoroid that was heading straight for the lodge. As long as she kept her finger on the trigger without letting go, the goo kept shooting in a long, purple strand. Once it struck and stuck to the meteoroid in question, it was as if Xing-Xing had lassoed the incoming space-rock and was still holding tight to her end of the rope. She dug her spacesuited heels into the regolith, tugging at the long length of goo connected to the meteoroid, grunting:
“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”
She pulled the meteoroid off its trajectory, swinging it down into the vastness of Crater Copernicus below. By combination of brain and brawn, Xing-Xing thus saved the lodge and everyone inside. She didn’t have long to feel good about it. “The bus!” she hollered.
Taji swung around and spotted a meteoroid heading straight for the lunar school bus. Following Xing-Xing’s example, he fired his goo-gun, hit the meteoroid—though not quite so squarely as Xing-Xing had hit hers—and pulled it off-course until it smashed into a ridge.
Inside the lodge, the Barnetts and Governor Tang had a dramatic view through the living room window of meteoroids coming down everywhere, and of Xing-Xing and Taji bravely defending them with goo. But they couldn’t run out to help because they were now all looking for Lucky’s missing helmet. If a meteoroid were to puncture a wall of the lodge, without his helmet on Lucky would suffocate in seconds.
“Found it!” Byron hollered via intercom—since he, his parents, and the governor were already suited up and wearing their helmets. “It musta rolled behind the chair!”
Outside, Xing-Xing had just fired at a particularly monstrous meteoroid and was straining with all her might to swing it away.
“Taji, grab hold of me!”
“I’m always good for a little fun, Xing-Xing, but do you really think now’s the right time?”
“This rock’s too big! Grab hold of me from behind and swing me around!”
Taji planted his feet firmly behind Xing-Xing, put his arms around her, and, pulling hard against the force of the incoming meteoroid on the other end of the goo-line, helped Xing-Xing swing the thing off course. Together they saved the lodge from instant annihilation, this time just as the rest of the group came running out of the airlock.
“Everyone into the bus!” ordered the governor.
They hurried into the vehicle, a throng of meteoroids slamming into the lodge behind them with such force that the structure was knocked right off its foundation. It tumbled into Crater Copernicus, flipped over as it fell, and crashed wrong-side-up on the crater floor below, bursting into flames on the inside before its glass walls blew out and the fire was extinguished by the loss of oxygen into the vacuum of the Moon.