Other faces were grim.

At the speedy trial in Tycho Station, sharp-featured Krell was among many who flung accusations.

"In the impact-zone itself--an area a hundred miles across--mining installations and machinery of tremendous value were utterly destroyed,"

he said. "But lesser damage extends to a far wider circle. Thousands of claims have been buried in dust, till much of the far lunar hemisphere will have to be resurveyed. Luckily, miners and explorers were warned in time, and sought safety. But the charge of wholesale vandalism--terrible enough--does not stand alone. These men are to be remembered as accused robbers and murderers."

In reb.u.t.tal, Brinker's defiance was a little uncertain, as if under so much blame, he had lost his a.s.surance.

"Men who know the Moon know that its barrenness is poison, and not right for people!" he growled. "I tried to change it with Brulow's Comet--when I had no success by other means. Anyway, Copeland is blameless. I forced him to help me."

Embitted, there was no warmth in Copeland for his older codefendant and jinx. Still, even without Brinker's attempt to shield him, he would have been loyal.

"During all important parts of mine and Jess Brinker's joint project,"

he told the court, "I was in full agreement with his purpose."

Their attorney accomplished one considerable victory before these angry people. The charge of previous murders and robbery was barred; it was admitted that footprints were easy to duplicate, and that the presence of some bearing the names of the guilty was unlikely.

Brinker got fifty years in the mine-pits, and Copeland thirty.

"You always figured I might get you in a jam, didn't you, Cope?" Brinker said. "I'll keep trying to fix that."

Copeland found nothing to grin about, in a thirty-year sentence. It was goodbye wandering, goodbye girls, goodbye everything. He'd get out middle-aged, finished, and marked. He might as well stay another twenty with Brinker--complete a sour a.s.sociation with him.

Copeland had another recent jolt to brood over. A bunch of old letters from his Frances had been delivered to him. His inability to receive or answer any of them had brought the worst result. She had married another guy, and who could blame her?

Arne Copeland wanted to kill Brinker. Getting desolation-goofy, and dragging him into this mess.

But from Brinker's infuriating grin, Copeland caught a hot spark of hope, backed by reasoning.

Later, sweating in the penal mine-pits near Tycho Station, Brinker and Copeland still heard sc.r.a.ps of news.

Explorers moved back into the region where the comet had split the lunar crust. The rising columns of steam and gas were perhaps unspectacular phenomena in themselves. But there they were, ready to fill a tremendous need. The sleepy internal fires of the Moon were unlikely to be violent.

Yet they would push vapors up to the surface here perhaps for centuries.

In balancing benefit against transient damage, was it necessary even to mention that deeper and richer mineral deposits had been laid bare for easy mining by the blast effect of the comet's downfall? All free men--good or bad, and of large or small holdings--were set to gain, Krell included. But better mines were a side-issue.

The prisoners soon heard how roofs of transparent, flexible plastic, brought in bundles like fabric, were being reared over that smashed-up region, to trap escaping volcanic vapors. One tentlike structure. Then another and another.

Here was ample water from volcanic steam, and vast quant.i.ties of carbon-dioxide from which ordinary air-rejuvenators could release breathable oxygen. Men who had lived so long in the lunar silence and barrenness, soon saw that these raw materials of life need not only be used locally, but could be piped anywhere.

"Folks have caught on, Cope," Brinker said. "They were a little desolation-balmy, too--hence on our side all the time. Now they'll feel better about my Old Man. There'll be more than one city, I'll bet--cl.u.s.ters of big, plastic air-bubbles, self-sealing against meteor-punctures, warmed inside at night by volcanic heat. It won't happen all at once, but it'll come. Seeds'll be planted, and houses built. Parts of the Moon won't look the same."

Krell's death was part of the turning tide. He was found in Tycho Station, head smashed by a boot-sole of metal; it was good that Brinker was in prison, because his name was printed into Krell's skull.

Who did it? Neither Brinker nor Copeland cared very much. Some wronged stooge of Krell's, no doubt. Let the forces of law figure out the details.

Things got really good for Copeland and Brinker after popular demand forced their vindication. They were feted, honored, praised, rewarded.

All Earth knew of them, and feminine colonists arriving as part of a new phase of the Moon's development, shined up to them as heroes.

It is not to be said that they didn't enjoy the advantages of fame.

Brinker said more than once: "Forget your Frances, Cope. Problems are easy, these days."

The time came when Copeland growled in answer: "Sure--too easy. Having a lot of pals after the need is gone. No--I'm not criticizing. Most folks are swell. But I'd like to make friends and maybe find love a little more naturally. I thought I'd stay on the Moon; now I think I'll shove off for Mars. People are going there; whole towns are being built, I understand. And there's plenty of room for a lunar tramp, with a prison-record, to get lost ..."

Copeland chuckled at the end. His vagabond blood was singing. He was also pitching a come-on at Brinker, for he'd seen him with some letters while they were prisoners. Copeland had glimpsed the name and address of the writer: Dorothy Wells, the big nurse that Brinker had known at Tycho Station. She was in Marsport now.

"By gosh--I guess I'll go too, Cope!" Brinker rumbled.

Looking back, Brinker thought it sort of funny that they were pals. He laughed.

[Ill.u.s.tration]