Danger Moon

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STEVE TEMPLIN came out of the airlock into Hadley Dome and looked around for someone to blow off steam on. Templin was fighting mad—had been that way for three days now, ever since he was ordered to report for this mysterious mission on the Moon.

Templin stripped off his pressure suit and almost threw it at the attendant. “I’m looking for Ellen Bishop,” he growled. “Where can I find her?”

The attendant said deferentially, “Miss Bishop’s suite is on Level Nine, sir. Just below the solarium.”

“Okay,” groused Templin, walking off.

“Just a second, sir,” the attendant called after him. “You forgot your check. And who shall I say is calling, please?”

Templin took the metal tag and jammed it in the pocket of his tunic. “Say nothing,” he advised over his shoulder. “I’m going to surprise her.”

He stared contemptuously around the ornate lobby of Hadley Dome, then, ignoring the waiting elevator, headed for the wide basalt stairway that led upstairs. With the force of gravity here on the Moon only about one sixth as powerful as on the surface of the Earth, an elevator was a particularly useless and irritating luxury. It was fit, Templin thought only for the kind of washed-out aristocrats who could afford to chase thrills for the five hundred dollars a day it cost them to live in Hadley Dome. Templin, a heavyweight on his home planet, weighed little over thirty-five pounds on the Moon. He bounded up the stairs in great soaring leaps, eight or ten steps at a time.

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