As his old solar-powered crawler made its way over the last ridge and onto the darker, lower rock of the lunar sea, Juan Lomas saw something glint in the sharp-edged sunlight. Reflections like that didn’t come from lunar rock, Juan knew - it could be a metal deposit, or even salvage of some kind. After staring for a moment, he decided it was worth checking out.
Juan altered course, looking forward to the possibility of getting out of the machine’s cramped cockpit for even a few minutes to identify the source of the reflection. Mindful of procedure, Juan radioed in the minor course change to New Havana, then started wiggling into his EV suit.
Twenty minutes later, the crawler stopped as its pilot stared out of the bubble canopy, a perplexed frown on his face. The glint he had seen had resolved itself into an unfamiliar machine on the lunar waste. There was other, lesser equipment scattered about as well.
Juan immediately grabbed his helmet and latched it into place, checking the seal before popping open the crawler’s canopy. Lunar gravity made it easy to vault out of the cockpit of the tracked vehicle and onto the soft gray dust.
Juan remembered the procedure for this situation, switching on his suit radio. “New Havana, I need to report an unknown equipment sighting.” The colony had records of most of the man-made equipment on the Moon. They could probably tell him what he had found.
“Of course, Senor Lomas.” Juan was not surprised by the use of his name. He knew the operator in New Havana had seen his name on the computer when she’d taken the call. “Your crawler’s tracker puts you near the southwest edge of the Sea of Tranquility, is that correct?”
“That is correct. There’s some strange equipment here.” Just as Juan was about to stop talking, something nonmetallic caught his eye - something not uniformly black, gray, and white like the rest of the moon. “... There’s a flag, too.”
“Senor, did you say a flag?” The operator seized on this. “Perhaps it identifies the site. What does it say?”
“No words. It’s just a bunch of colored stripes.” Juan had also begun to notice footprints, as sharp as if they were laid down yesterday, in the dusty ground. Any denizen of the moon, though, knew that without wind, footprints could remain that sharp for centuries.
“Juan Lomas?” A man’s voice asked. Apparently, Juan had been transferred to to a databank operator. “I need you to tell me what that flag looks like, exactly.”
“Just, well, red and white stripes across. One corner is blue.” There was a pause on the link, an awkward silence. Juan eventually decided to break it. “Is this stuff safe?”
“We are checking our records. Don't touch anything.”
“Acknowledged.” Juan, took a few steps, circling around the largest piece of equipment, a disc-like platform standing on four bent legs. Its outer edges were wrapped in some sort of protective golden foil, of a type Juan had never seen before.
Juan realized suddenly that none of the equipment looked even remotely familiar. Whose was it? It certainly wasn’t South American. Didn’t look Chinese either. Who did that leave? There wasn’t a Russian base within a thousand miles, and the Europeans didn’t even bother with the moon. Could be private, he supposed, there were at least half a dozen corporations that owned spacecraft. But there weren't any visible markings to back that up.
“Senor Lomas, there are no records of activity at your location, but if your description of the flag is accurate, there is one possibility.”
Juan frowned. No records? Odd. "What's that?”
“We think you have discovered an old American landing site.”
Americans. Juan remembered what was taught in school about the American empire. A great and powerful nation, but one that rejected what the rest of the civilized world embraced - the glorious advent of the socialist government. At least, for a time. The Americans had landed on the moon, long ago, but the positions of the landing sites were lost when an EM pulse from an Iranian H-bomb wiped out every computer from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the Arctic Circle to the Yucatan, along with almost half the world’s computer data.
“An American site?” Juan surveyed the scattered equipment again. That would explain his inability to characterize the equipment. “Interesting. Didn’t know they ever landed in these parts.”
“Take any pictures you like, but do not move the equipment, Senor Lomas. We are sending experts to verify. If it is American, studying it could have historical value.”
Juan walked over to the platform machine. Could it be part of one of the first vessels to reach this inhospitable sphere, over a century before? Though they were leaders in a corrupt, decadent age, the Americans of old had a sort of mystique about them. What was he supposed to feel, Juan wondered, standing in such a place, an arm’s reach from equipment used by the men who first braved the void to reach Earth’s companion?
“I wonder what they said, when they got here.” Did they sing anthems glorifying American power? Did they dedicate the occasion with a long, stirring speech about their dear leader of choice, and how that person set them on the path to being in this place? Did they lay boisterous claim this dusty wasteland in the name of their empire?
Juan’s radio must have been on when he said that to himself, for someone on the other end replied by way of a recording. It was old, judging by the quality of the sound. It was also short. Twelve words, spoken in English, was all that could be heard before the radio again clicked off. None of those words glorified a great leader, or exalted the nation of the speaker.
Those twelve words rang in Juan’s ears with unnatural tenacity. He doubted not their authenticity, and knew inexplicably but without doubt that the footprints next to his, leading to and from the pedestal device, were those of the man who spoke them.
Careful to give the old prints a wide berth, Juan returned to his crawler and set it back on course. Even after the place was hidden by the frozen swells of the Sea of Tranquility, those words echoed in Juan’s mind.
Juan altered course, looking forward to the possibility of getting out of the machine’s cramped cockpit for even a few minutes to identify the source of the reflection. Mindful of procedure, Juan radioed in the minor course change to New Havana, then started wiggling into his EV suit.
Twenty minutes later, the crawler stopped as its pilot stared out of the bubble canopy, a perplexed frown on his face. The glint he had seen had resolved itself into an unfamiliar machine on the lunar waste. There was other, lesser equipment scattered about as well.
Juan immediately grabbed his helmet and latched it into place, checking the seal before popping open the crawler’s canopy. Lunar gravity made it easy to vault out of the cockpit of the tracked vehicle and onto the soft gray dust.
Juan remembered the procedure for this situation, switching on his suit radio. “New Havana, I need to report an unknown equipment sighting.” The colony had records of most of the man-made equipment on the Moon. They could probably tell him what he had found.
“Of course, Senor Lomas.” Juan was not surprised by the use of his name. He knew the operator in New Havana had seen his name on the computer when she’d taken the call. “Your crawler’s tracker puts you near the southwest edge of the Sea of Tranquility, is that correct?”
“That is correct. There’s some strange equipment here.” Just as Juan was about to stop talking, something nonmetallic caught his eye - something not uniformly black, gray, and white like the rest of the moon. “... There’s a flag, too.”
“Senor, did you say a flag?” The operator seized on this. “Perhaps it identifies the site. What does it say?”
“No words. It’s just a bunch of colored stripes.” Juan had also begun to notice footprints, as sharp as if they were laid down yesterday, in the dusty ground. Any denizen of the moon, though, knew that without wind, footprints could remain that sharp for centuries.
“Juan Lomas?” A man’s voice asked. Apparently, Juan had been transferred to to a databank operator. “I need you to tell me what that flag looks like, exactly.”
“Just, well, red and white stripes across. One corner is blue.” There was a pause on the link, an awkward silence. Juan eventually decided to break it. “Is this stuff safe?”
“We are checking our records. Don't touch anything.”
“Acknowledged.” Juan, took a few steps, circling around the largest piece of equipment, a disc-like platform standing on four bent legs. Its outer edges were wrapped in some sort of protective golden foil, of a type Juan had never seen before.
Juan realized suddenly that none of the equipment looked even remotely familiar. Whose was it? It certainly wasn’t South American. Didn’t look Chinese either. Who did that leave? There wasn’t a Russian base within a thousand miles, and the Europeans didn’t even bother with the moon. Could be private, he supposed, there were at least half a dozen corporations that owned spacecraft. But there weren't any visible markings to back that up.
“Senor Lomas, there are no records of activity at your location, but if your description of the flag is accurate, there is one possibility.”
Juan frowned. No records? Odd. "What's that?”
“We think you have discovered an old American landing site.”
Americans. Juan remembered what was taught in school about the American empire. A great and powerful nation, but one that rejected what the rest of the civilized world embraced - the glorious advent of the socialist government. At least, for a time. The Americans had landed on the moon, long ago, but the positions of the landing sites were lost when an EM pulse from an Iranian H-bomb wiped out every computer from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the Arctic Circle to the Yucatan, along with almost half the world’s computer data.
“An American site?” Juan surveyed the scattered equipment again. That would explain his inability to characterize the equipment. “Interesting. Didn’t know they ever landed in these parts.”
“Take any pictures you like, but do not move the equipment, Senor Lomas. We are sending experts to verify. If it is American, studying it could have historical value.”
Juan walked over to the platform machine. Could it be part of one of the first vessels to reach this inhospitable sphere, over a century before? Though they were leaders in a corrupt, decadent age, the Americans of old had a sort of mystique about them. What was he supposed to feel, Juan wondered, standing in such a place, an arm’s reach from equipment used by the men who first braved the void to reach Earth’s companion?
“I wonder what they said, when they got here.” Did they sing anthems glorifying American power? Did they dedicate the occasion with a long, stirring speech about their dear leader of choice, and how that person set them on the path to being in this place? Did they lay boisterous claim this dusty wasteland in the name of their empire?
Juan’s radio must have been on when he said that to himself, for someone on the other end replied by way of a recording. It was old, judging by the quality of the sound. It was also short. Twelve words, spoken in English, was all that could be heard before the radio again clicked off. None of those words glorified a great leader, or exalted the nation of the speaker.
Those twelve words rang in Juan’s ears with unnatural tenacity. He doubted not their authenticity, and knew inexplicably but without doubt that the footprints next to his, leading to and from the pedestal device, were those of the man who spoke them.
Careful to give the old prints a wide berth, Juan returned to his crawler and set it back on course. Even after the place was hidden by the frozen swells of the Sea of Tranquility, those words echoed in Juan’s mind.
“That’s one small step for a man... One giant leap for mankind.”
The nation whose flag he planted on another world may well vanish from the earth, but like the soft gray dust oft he moon, the hearts and minds of humanity will carry his mark for all time. Godspeed, Neil Armstrong.
The nation whose flag he planted on another world may well vanish from the earth, but like the soft gray dust oft he moon, the hearts and minds of humanity will carry his mark for all time. Godspeed, Neil Armstrong.
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