Farside - By Ben Bova Page 0,2

hundred meters across, covering a total area ten kilometers wide.

When the IAA announced its plans for the space-based optical interferometer, one of Selene University’s distinguished astronomers, Professor Jason Uhlrich, proposed building a more modest optical instrument on the Moon’s far side. After all, the surface of the airless Moon was effectively in space. The vacuum at the lunar surface was actually a thousand times thinner than the vacuum in Earth orbit. Lunar materials could be used to build the telescopes, and the Moon offered a firm platform for them.

So the Farside Observatory became the site for an optical interferometer consisting of three interlinked telescopes, each with a main mirror of one hundred meters, slightly larger than an American football field, more than twice the size of any telescope mirror built on Earth. They were to be erected in three giant craters: the longest distance between them would be about eighteen hundred kilometers.

And in the midst of the optical instruments, the Cyclops radio telescope was being erected. Professor Uhlrich was named to head Farside Observatory. He enthusiastically proclaimed that the observatory would be the finest and most important astronomical facility in the solar system.

Yet, even in the gentle gravity of the Moon, building such large and complex structures was a challenge to the skill and knowledge of the men and women who came to Farside.

More than anything else, it was a test of their perseverance and their heart, a challenge that brought out the best in some of them.

In some of them it brought out the worst.

FARSIDE OBSERVATORY

“Farside Observatory coming up,” announced the cheerful voice of the lobber’s pilot. “We’ll be down in Mare Moscoviense in five minutes.”

Trudy thought that “down” could mean a crash as well as a landing, but she tried to keep the worry off her face as she tightened the straps of her safety harness.

“The Sea of Moscow,” McClintock said knowingly. “It’s actually just a big crater. Korolev is bigger. So is Mendeleev. Not like the Mare Nubium or Mare Imbrium on the nearside.”

“When a crater’s that big,” Trudy replied, “it’s called a ringed plain, not a crater.” There, she thought, let him know I’m not a total ignoramus.

Unperturbed, McClintock went on, “Lots of features on the farside are named after Russians, you know. One of their early spacecraft was the first to observe the farside.”

Trudy nodded as she stared at the display screen above her head. She saw a curving range of worn-looking rounded mountains, then a flat plain pockmarked with small craters. It looked dusty, bare, utterly barren.

And then, “Look! The Cyclops array!”

Hundreds of round radio dish antennas stood lined up across the floor of the huge crater. The scene reminded Trudy of the segmented eye of an insect. And it looked as if the ship was hurtling down, straight at it.

She glanced across the aisle at McClintock; his handsome features were set in a tight grimace, as if he were trying to steer the ship himself by grim determination. His hands were gripping the seat’s armrests tightly.

I’m not the only one who’s nervous, she realized.

“Retro burn in thirty seconds,” the pilot announced, sounding much more serious than before.

The ground was rushing up to hit them. The array of radio telescopes slid out of the screen’s view; there was nothing out there now but empty, barren ground, strewn with boulders and pitted with craterlets. It looked very hard.

A roar and a pressure against her back, like someone slamming a two-by-four along her spine. Then it stopped as abruptly as it had started.

“We’re down,” said the pilot, cheerful again. “Welcome to the Farside Observatory.”

Trudy heard several sighs of relief, and realized that the loudest one was her own. Then everybody started to talk at once, unbuckle their seat harnesses, get to their feet.

We’re here, she thought. Now the work begins.

She stood up and reached for the overhead luggage bin. McClintock leaned across and opened the hatch for her, then pulled out her meager travelbag and handed it to her. He was tall as well as handsome: Trudy’s plain, lank hair barely rose to the level of his chin.

“Thank you,” Trudy said to him.

“You’re quite welcome,” he replied.

Then he grabbed his own bag and started up the aisle toward the passenger compartment’s airlock hatch without another glance at her. Trudy shuffled along after him, walking carefully in the light lunar gravity.

She was ordinary in every way, she knew. Average height for a Canadian woman, with a slim build and dull brown hair. No beauty, although she thought