But he didn’t make plans for the production-job he’d been sent to the moon to do.  Psychiatry was specialized, these days, as physical medicine had been before it.  An extremely expensive diagnostician had been sent to the moon to tap Dabney’s reflexes, and he’d gravely diagnosed frustration and suggested young Dr. Holden for the curative treatment.  Frustration was the typical neurosis of the rich, anyhow, and Bill Holden had specialized in its cure.  His main reliance was on the making of a dramatic production centering about his patient, which was expensive enough and effective enough to have made him a quick reputation.  But he couldn’t tell Cochrane what was required of him.  Not yet.  He knew the disease but not the case.  He’d have to see and know Dabney before he could make use of the extra-special production-crew his patient’s father-in-law had provided from the staff of Kursten, Kasten, Hopkins and Fallowe.

Ninety-some hours after blast-off from the space platform, the rocket-ship turned end for end and began to blast to kill its velocity toward the moon.  It began at half-gravity—­the red glowing sign gave warning of it—­and rose to one gravity and then to two.  After days of no-weight, two gravities was punishing.

Cochrane thought to look at Babs.  She was rapt, lost in picturings of what must be outside the ship, which she could not see.  She’d be imagining what the television screens had shown often enough, from film-tapes.  The great pock marked face of Luna, with its ring-mountains in incredible numbers and complexity, and the vast open “seas” which were solidified oceans of lava, would be clear to her mind’s eye.  She would be imagining the gradual changes of the moon’s face with nearness, when the colorings appear.  From a distance all the moon seems tan or sandy in tint.  When one comes closer, there are tawny reds and slate-colors in the mountain-cliffs, and even blues and yellows, and everywhere there is the ashy, whitish-tan color of the moondust.

Glancing at her, absorbed in her satisfaction, Cochrane suspected that with only half an excuse she would explain to him how the several hundreds of degrees difference in the surface-temperature of the moon between midnight and noon made rocks split and re-split and fracture so that stuff as fine as talcum powder covered every space not too sharply tilted for it to rest on.

The feeling of deceleration increased.  For part of a second they had the sensation of three gravities.

Then there was a curious, yielding jar—­really very slight—­and then the feeling of excess weight ended altogether.  But not the feeling of weight.  They still had weight.  It was constant.  It was steady.  But it was very slight.

They were on the moon, but Cochrane felt no elation.  In the tedious hours from the space platform he’d thought too much.  He was actually aware of the humiliations and frustrations most men had to conceal from themselves because they couldn’t afford expensive psychiatric treatments.  Frustration was the disease of all humanity, these days.  And there was nothing that could be done about it.  Nothing!  It simply wasn’t possible to rebel, and rebellion is the process by which humiliation and frustration is cured.  But one could not rebel against the plain fact that Earth had more people on it than one planet could support.