to such desperate expedients, if there was no sign of rescue by the end of the week. But that was a nightmare that must be kept firmly at the back of his mind, for to dwell too long upon it could only sap his courage.
"If there are no more questions," said Hansteen, "I suggest we introduce ourselves. Whether we like it or not, we have to get used to each other's company, so let's find out who we are. I'll go round the room, and perhaps each of you in turn will give your name, occupation, and home town. You first, sir."
"Robert Bryan, civil engineer, retired, Kingston, Jamaica."
"Irving Schuster, attorney at law, Chicago - and my wife, Myra."
"Nihal Jayawardene, Professor of Zoology, University of Ceylon, Peradeniya."
As the roll call continued, Pat once again found himself grateful for the one piece of luck in this desperate situation. By character, training, and experience, Commodore Hansteen was a born leader of men: already he was beginning to weld this random collection of individuals into a unit, to build up that indefinable esprit de corps that transforms a mob into a team. These things he had learned while his little fleet - the first ever to vcnturc beyond the orbit of Neptune, almost three billion miles from the sun - had hung poised week upon weck in the emptiness between the planets. Pat, who was thirty years younger and had never been away from the Earth-Moon system, felt no resentment at the change of command that had tacitly taken place. It was nice of the Commodore to say that he was still the boss, but he knew better.
"Duncan McKenzie, physicist, Mount Stromlo Observatory, Canberra."
"Pierre Blanchard, cost accountant, Clavius City, Earthside."
"Phyllis Morley, journalist, London."
"Karl Johanson, nucleonics engineer, Tsiolkovski Base, Farside."
That was the lot; quite a collection of talent, though not an unusual one, for the people who came to the Moon always had something out of the ordinary - even if it was only money. But all the skill and experience now locked up in Selene could not, so it seemed to Pat, do anything to help them in their present situation.
That was not quite true, as Commodore Hansteen was now about to prove. He knew, as well as any man alive, that they would be fighting boredom as well as fear. They had been thrown upon their own resources; in an age of universal entertainment and communications, they had suddenly been cut off from the rest of the human race. Radio, TV, telefax newssheets, movies, telephone - all these things now meant no more to them than to the people of the Stone Age. They were like some ancient tribe gathered round the campfire, in a wilderness that held no other men. Even on the Pluto run, thought Commodore Hansteen, they had never been as lonely as this. They had had a fine library and had been well stocked with every possible form of canned entertainment, and they could talk by tight beam to the inner planets whenever they wished. But on Selene, there was not even a pack of cards.
That was an idea. "Miss Morley! As a journalist, I imagine you have a notebook?"
"Why, yes, Commodore."
"Fifty-two blank sheets in it still?"
"I think so."
"Then I must ask you to sacrifice them. Please cut them out and mark a pack of cards on them. No need to be artistic - as long as they're legible, and the lettering doesn't show through the back."
"How are you going to shuffle paper cards?" asked somebody.
"A good problem for our Entertainment Committee to solve. Anyone who thinks they have talent in this direction?"
"I used to be on the stage," said Myra Schuster, rather hesitantly. Her husband did not look at all pleased by this revelation, but it delighted the Commodore.
"Excellent! Though we're a little cramped for space, I was hoping we might be able to put on a play."
Now Mrs. Schuster looked as unhappy as her husband.
"It was rather a long time ago," she said, "and I - I never did much talking."
There were several chuckles, and even the Commodore had difficulty in keeping a straight face. Looking at Mrs. Schuster, on the wrong side of both fifty years and a hundred kilos, it was a little hard to imagine her as, he suspected, a chorus girl.
"Never mind," he said, "it's the spirit that counts. Who will help Mrs. Schuster?"
"I've done some amateur theatricals," said Professor Jayawardene. "Mostly Brecht and Ibsen, though."
That final "though" indicated recognition of the fact