2 RED ALERT

2 RED ALERT Lunar day 188 Morning I didn't hear about Dr. Holtz's death until well after it happened. I hadn't been able to go back to sleep after overhearing his conversation in the bathroom. This was partly because I was excited to learn what he'd discovered—but mostly because our lunar sleeping quarters are horrible. Sleeping in low gravity is difficult to begin with; it's been a major problem with human spaceflight since day one. However, the

idiots who designed MBA worked overtime to make the problem even worse. Due to space and weight considerations, no beds were brought to the moon. Instead we all sleep on air mattresses that were specifically designed for minimum weight rather than comfort. They're stiff, they smell like burning tires, and they often leak—so it's common to wake up in the middle of the night to find yourself on the hard floor, surrounded by deflated rubber. In addition, it's always daytime at Moon Base Alpha. All our power comes from the sun, generated by two massive arrays of solar panels, so MBA is situated near the moon's north pole, where the sun never sets. (Anywhere else on the moon we would have had 354 hours of night at a time, followed by 354 hours of day.) To stay sane, all Moonies are directed to follow a twenty-four hour earth day, synced to the USA's central time zone via Mission Control in Houston, Texas. But I've had a hard time adapting to life without regular phases of night and day. Finally, we don't have bedrooms. Space is too valuable at MBA for those. Instead we all sleep in "personal sleep pods," which are claustrophobically small chambers built into the wall of our one-room

apartment. Each has a sliding door so you can close yourself inside, but no one uses it because that makes the claustrophobia even worse. The sleep pods are stacked two by two like bunk beds, so I have to climb into mine. It's more like a tomb than a bedroom. With all of that, it was hard enough to sleep on a normal night, let alone when I knew one of the most important discoveries in human history was about to be revealed. I tossed and turned for hours, then finally gave up and dragged myself from bed at six a.m., figuring I could at least check the SlimScreen for the latest news from earth. However, as I clambered out of my pod, my six-year-old sister, Violet, popped her head out of hers. "Morning, Dash!" she chirped. "Is it breakfast time?" "Not quite yet," I whispered, trying not to wake our parents. "Go back to sleep." "I hope there's bacon this morning!" she said, ignoring me. "D'you think there's bacon?" "No," I sighed. "There has never been bacon here, and as far as I know, there never will be." Violet frowned for a split second, then returned

to her usual perky self. "Okay. I guess I'll have waffles, then!" She scrambled out of her pod and drifted down to the floor next to me. On earth Violet barely weighed forty pounds; in the moon's weak gravity, she might as well have been a leaf. She was wearing bright pink Hello Kitty pajamas, and her dark hair was sticking out every which way, making her look like Thing One from The Cat in the Hat. "Is the rocket here yet?" I turned to her, surprised. In my excitement about Dr. Holtz, I'd completely forgotten that a rocket was due that day, bringing new Moonies and supplies. The rockets only come every few weeks, which makes their arrivals one of the rare breaks from the dull routine of lunar life. "No. It's not due for another few hours. If it doesn't get delayed." "Oh. Maybe they'll have bacon!" "I wouldn't get your hopes up." "Too late! They're up! Want to play chess?" "You don't know how to play chess." "I know what all the pieces do!" "That's not the same thing," I said. "Did someone mention chess?" My mother slipped out of her own sleep pod. In the one next to hers I caught a glimpse of Dad, who groaned at the

early hour and yanked the covers back over his head. Obviously, Violet's refusal to whisper had woken both of them, although Mom, as usual, did her best not to show any annoyance. "I've got time for a little chess before breakfast," she said, tousling Violet's hair. The two of them look so much alike, with their frizzy hair, dark skin, and green eyes, that people often teasingly ask if Mom just cloned herself. Mom looked to me. "Unless you want to play something too? Then I could pick a game for all three of us." "Ooh! Like Monopoly!" Violet exclaimed. "We can play the Moon Base Alpha version!" "No, thanks," I said. "You sure?" Mom asked. "Definitely." I was too keyed up to spend the next few hours playing a game—and I certainly wasn't about to play one that took place at Moon Base Alpha. I felt trapped there enough as it was. "Your loss," Mom chided. Then she turned to the SlimScreen. "Computer: Chess, please." Although computers have been able to control everything in homes on earth for years, Mom and Dad always hated the idea. They never installed a control system back in Hawaii. But at MBA the base

computer is hardwired into every room, eternally ready to do anything we ask. Fortunately, we can adjust its personality in our private quarters. So Mom and Dad selected the funniest voice they could find: an outrageous, high-pitched German accent. "It vould be my pleasure!" the computer squealed. "Vhat version of chess do you desire?" Mom stifled a laugh. "Surprise us," she said. "I vill do my best, meine Frau." On our only table, the SlimScreen surface shifted from the standard simulated-marble screen saver to a three- dimensional, holographic chess game. The computer had selected an extremely ornate version, with pieces that looked like they'd been molded from pure gold and silver and studded with precious gems. "Ooh!" Violet gasped. "Can you make my pieces pink?" "I'm afraid I don't have ze ability to emit odors," the computer replied. "Zerefore, I cannot make zem stink." "Not stink!" Mom snapped. "Pink! Can you make her pieces pink?" The computer makes this sort of mistake a lot. Despite billions of dollars in research and