One Small Step
by
Gregory Norris

There is a golden rule in space travel: never take a child aged four. Seven - perfect, they'll love Mickey's moon hops at LunarDisney. Babies - fine, they'll just float in weightlessness, gurgling. But a four-year old - that's asking for trouble.

And trouble is what I got from taking Katie for a fortnight at the Sea of Tranquillity. Her mother was off doing underwater archaeology at the submerged city of Amsterdam, while I was heading for my new job as manager of the lunar resort at Eagle Base. I could afford her million-dollar fare and thought the trip would be educational. A chance to see a bit of the solar system, an opportunity for father-daughter bonding. A stay on the moon would improve her vocabulary while low gravity would enhance her motor skills.

I had been warned. Her Development Programs already graded her top decile in vocabulary and her co-ordination test scores were upper quadrant. Her only problem was the sub-optimal score for Civic Responsibility. As her grandmother put it: she kept getting into mischief.

It started the minute we reached earth orbit. Katie giggled when her long hair floated upwards and she was eager to play in weightlessness. She undid her straps.

'Look Daddy, I'm floating,' she cried.

'Don't spin,' I warned.

She promptly set herself tumbling head over heels. 'Oh, that makes me feel funny,' she said. I caught her just in time for her to throw up over me.

But the flight attendant vacuumed up with accustomed skill and Katie couldn't remain subdued for long. She tried to hide her smile but it crept back when she saw the earth rolling beneath us. I pointed out Japan, home of two of her grandparents, and she demanded the pilot take us over Madagascar so she could show everyone her house. On the day-long journey to the moon she became a favourite with the crew and passengers. She sat in the cockpit and flew for a while, sending the shuttle weaving through space, and for several hours refused to admit it was time for bed.

We woke just as we were reaching the moon for an initial sight-seeing orbit. The moonscape was stark, an almost abstract composition of craters and jagged peaks, and the intensity of the sunlight on the pristine surface contrasted with the velvet blackness of the shadows. Four billion years of stillness and silence made us all speak in whispers. Buzz Aldrin had summed it up perfectly as he stepped from the Eagle: "Magnificent desolation."

Katie was disappointed. 'Why doesn't it shine?' she asked. I explained in vain that the moon was one of the darkest objects in the solar system, reflecting only a fifth of the sun's light. When we landed she'd find moondust was dark grey.

'The moon does shine, I know it does, I've seen it from my bedroom window,' she proclaimed.

Suddenly the Sea of Tranquillity was below us and the shuttle's engines roared. The sunlight reflected off the polyethylene domes of Eagle Base, making them sparkle like diamonds amid the grey plains of the Maria. We could see the small size of this fragile outpost, surrounded by unrelenting hostility.

Katie forgot her disappointment as soon as we landed. A bus took us to the Columbia Hotel where she had her first try at walking in one-sixth g. The heavy carpet was not just for decoration, it acted as a shock absorber for new arrivals. She soon got the hang of running with long strides and moon-hops. 'Look, I'm a kangaroo,' she shouted.

Straight away we did what every tourist does first. We ignored LunarDisney and the bus tours and the views from the Skyway Lounge. The incredible low-g rollercoasters would have to wait, we'd try the swimming pool another day. Instead we headed for the Museum Dome.

It seems to draw you in. A sense of history catches you, the magical lure of those pioneering days. Ten years ago the pressurized dome was erected around the site to save visitors from peering through bus windows or clambering about in bulky space suits. Now you feel closer, standing on a balcony in casual clothes, looking down over the scene.

And first of all you seek out the Footprint. After all, it is the symbol of the Lunar Nation.

I pointed it out to Katie. 'There. At the foot of the ladder. Do you see?'

'Yes.' She wasn't impressed. 'Is that it?'

'That's it.'

A footprint in the lunar dust, made by a clumsy boot with a rough tread. One of many that weave across the surface. It hardly seems possible this draws in tourists by the thousand. The greatest wonder of the solar system seems to be nothing but a small indentation.

But it's more. It's that first moment, it's that famous saying. Here was where it all began. You can't help but stare, marvel, salute.

Only after a few minutes can you take in the rest of the scene. The descent stage of the Eagle, the tiny capsule that brought Armstrong and Aldrin here so long ago, rests abandoned, its roof scorched when the ascent stage ignited and carried them home. The Stars and Stripes lies toppled in the dust, surrounded by more footprints where they struggled to plant it. A small plaque on a landing strut declares "We came in peace for all mankind". But your eyes always wander back to the Footprint.

Katie was getting bored. Looking around she asked, 'Why does it make everyone sad?'

I looked. Forty or so people were gathered around the balcony, all with glistening eyes. This was why they'd travelled a quarter of a million miles - they leant over the rail to be a little closer, they spoke in respectful whispers. We were all united in reverence: before us was the physical embodiment of the Giant Leap.

I directed Katie's attention to it once again. 'Do you like the Footprint?'

She gave it a few seconds careful consideration. 'It's very big.' She flopped to the floor and pulled her feet to her face, giving grave inspection to the soles of her shoes. 'My feet are lots smaller.'

After a while we moon-hopped our way to the video hall and laughed at the silly rockets and the comical Apollo spacesuits. It was all so primitive - not to mention dangerous.

'They came all this way just to make footprints?' asked Katie. And she was right: that was pretty much it. Armstrong and Aldrin only had a couple of hours on the moon, and much of that was wasted by a phone call from some President or other who wanted a chat. They grabbed a few lumps of rock, hammered in a seismometer and rushed home again. But somehow none of that seemed to matter. A footprint was enough.

The next day I had to get to grips with my new job and I delivered Katie to the care of the "Moonbeams Club". With a dozen other children she'd learn the club song and be taught a special Moonbeam walk - a kind of hopscotching hop and jump. There is nothing quite like the sense of peace that comes with handing over a four-year old to childcare professionals.

Not realising how short my tenure would be I started my new job with enthusiasm. A meeting with my assistants confirmed the main problem: the rival lunar resort, Falcon Base, was becoming a serious competitor. Their hotels overlooked the Apennine mountains and Hadley Rille canyon, giving stunning views. They too had a pioneer site: Apollo 15. Tourists crammed onto coaches to see the remains of the Falcon and the rover that Scott and Irwin rode across the lunar surface.

We had to admit their historical sights were awe-inspiring. A hammer and a falcon feather lay in the dust, dropped by Dave Scott in demonstration of Galileo's principal that objects fall together, no matter their weight. A small red Bible left on the rover's control panel symbolised the crew's faith. And a small plaque bearing the names of fourteen men had been left as a memorial to the cosmonauts and astronauts who'd died in that first decade of space exploration.

Falcon also offered more exciting activities - mountaineering up Bennet Peak, abseiling down into the Rille, racing on replicas of those absurd twentieth-century rovers. The latest James Bond movie had been filmed there and visitors wanted to copy the famous stunt of tobogganing down Silver Spur. I was still worrying about our rival when Katie returned home that evening.

'Look Daddy, they gave me a Moonbeams t-shirt and a badge!' she told me. 'Tomorrow we're going swimming at the PleasurePool.'

Over the next few days Katie chatted away about her expeditions. She went on a tour of the local craters in a pressurised bus and tried a spacesuit to replicate the pioneers for a few minutes. She visited the greenhouses and became quite knowledgable about hydroponics. LunarDisney was her favourite. 'You should have seen it, Daddy, Mickey and Minnie did ballet dancing and Minnie got cross because Mickey kept bouncing away.'

Her daily report card hinted at additional adventures. "Katie has been advised not to play in airlocks." "Katie has been told the nuclear reactor's access hatch is kept locked for a reason." One evening she returned covered in moondust, the acrid gunpowder smell filling the hotel suite. Her report read: "Katie should not use the experimental seed bed, vital to future lunar agriculture, as a sandpit."

One day I was immersed in the resort's budget when the Class One Emergency siren reminded me of the awesome vulnerability of this human outpost. Of course it was a false alarm - there hadn't been an accident at Eagle Base for forty years - but it brought home the closeness of the pure vacuum, the horrors of depressurisation, the danger of fire. As I rushed to the emergency oxygen packs I was reminded of the terrible price paid to create this paradise, starting with the three astronauts of Apollo One burning inside their tiny capsule. The false alarm left me even more in admiration of those pioneering days.

That evening Katie's report read: "Katie should not press the Class One Emergency alarm, even if her Barbie doll has been exposed to the vacuum without its space suit." I wasn't sure Katie listened but I tried to explain the dangers that others had endured for her present enjoyment, attempting to emphasise the legacy of the pioneers that gave her this vacation on the moon.

'All they did was make a Footprint,' she said. 'I don't see what's dangerous about that. Barbie was out in the vacuum in nothing but her bikini.'

'Those Footprints are humankind's greatest achievement,' I said. But I knew my words were wasted.

It was on the following day that Katie became famous across the solar system. I worked late into the evening, assuming she'd be OK at the crèche. I was finishing a report concluding the rival Falcon resort would never catch Eagle Base - market research showed we'd always be the preferred tourist destination because we had the Footprint. That indentation in the dust guaranteed our billion-dollar-a-day profit.

Then I got the call. Katie was missing.

I ended up the villain but the Moonbeams Club teachers were the ones to blame. How can trained professionals let a four-year old go wandering off at the end of the day?

My heart raced. I had visions of her outside on the lunar surface or trapped in an airlock. I grew a little calmer when the security personnel confirmed all the tour buses had returned and all space suits and moon buggies were accounted for. The most dangerous parts of the resort were checked and found clear.

It was a while before I thought of the Museum Dome. Maybe my lecture the previous evening had been successful after all. Perhaps Katie, filled at last with a sense of her heritage, had wanted another look.

I hurried there, bounding with the longest hops as I could manage. The museum had been shut for some time and my calls echoed through the exhibits. To my disappointment I found the viewing area deserted.

Then I heard a sound from below. How she'd got down there I've never discovered.

I lent over the balcony. The tracks of the Apollo astronauts were overlaid by the marks of much smaller shoes. A trail of tiny footprints weaved around the Eagle and they showed the unmistakable pattern of the Moonbeams hopscotch walk.

I looked towards the Footprint. You can imagine my relief when I saw it was still intact.

But above it a small figure jumped from the Eagle's ladder. She floated down towards the Footprint, feet braced for impact.

'Look Daddy,' she cried. 'I can make footprints too.'