We were driving through the desert when we had a flat tyre.  Hubert got out and changed it, and we drove to the next town and got our tyre repaired.

Sounds familiar?  Sounds routine?  Piece of cake?  Yes to all three.  But why is there always a but?

Our but came in the form of a puncture while we were driving our moon buggy across the Sea of Tranquillity, in the late afternoon.  That of course meant that we had approximately ninety six hours of daylight left before the sun sank beneath the horizon, leaving only the much lesser light of the earth to assist the rescue operation.  Obviously, we needed help, and quickly.

We'd be missed of course, when we didn't arrive at Imbrium on time, especially as we were transporting much needed supplies from Selene Base, but by the time they noticed we'd turned up missing and organised a search party, it would be too late for us, though their supplies would be safe enough.  Beer and tobacco wouldn't come to any harm on the moon's surface, insulated as they were from the harsh heat of the daytime hours. We humans were a different kettle of fish.  While our food and drink could keep us going for a week or more, our air supply would last for another two days at best.

I restrained the automatic curse that leapt to my lips, and instead ordered Sparky to the radio, telling him to radio Selene Base for help.

Why didn't the six of us simply change the tyre?  If you'd ever been on the moon, you wouldn't ask that.  Our tyres were enormous things, over three metres high and one metre across, designed to cope with the deep pockets of dust found all over the sea.  The lack of moisture on Luna meant that the desiccated dust flowed almost like water, so that normal tyres would have sunk straight in, and with dust pockets that had been recorded at 50 metres deep, we'd have spent the rest of eternity in a private little grave.  As we hadn't been able to design a rack big enough for a spare, we were pretty much at the mercy of the elements.

'Why have we stopped?' asked Jonesy, rubbing his eyes as he came through from the aft sleeping compartment.

'Number seven tyre just blew.  Sparky's about to get help,' Connor told him.  'Let's hope they're awake over at Selene!'

'Sparky's not,' said the radio tech sitting at his console.  'Those mountains are in the way.  I can't get a signal through.'

'How about Luna Central?'

'Same problem.  No line of sight.'

'How about a radio rocket?' I asked.

'Remember the box that fell off at the last dustbowl?  Guess what was in it, Boss?'

'How about spares?  Weren't we taking spares over to Imbrium?'

'Next trip, Boss.'

After I reprimanded Jonesy and Connor for their language, I moved to the view-port and gazed out over the silvery grey landscape.  I wasn't looking at the dust that stretched for miles.  I was looking for inspiration.  If we couldn't get help, we were in big trouble. I began to think of sending someone walking across the sea to the mountain range, then have him climb to the top and send an SOS through his suit radio.  I didn't fancy the trip, but couldn't delegate somebody else to do what I wouldn't.  If I did that, my chances of ever getting another crew for the buggy would be like the moon's atmosphere, zero!

Popping sounds behind me told me that the rest of the crew had opened coffee cans, pressing the QuikHeat buttons on their bases.

'Somebody throw me one,' I suggested, upon which Jones threw a can at the bulkhead close to me, from where it rebounded to fall neatly into my open hand.  'You might have warmed it first,' I grumbled, while appreciating his hand and eye co-ordination that made him a popular member of the Selene snooker team.  Jones never missed an opportunity to keep his skills sharp, and had earned the title of Cushion King. 

I don't mind admitting that I'd augmented my already high income by suckering newcomers to the moon into betting that they could take this uncoordinated, clumsy bloke three games out of five.  Just another two years and I could put a down payment on a nice little space buggy and head out to the asteroids for some serious mining.  Among the bones of the lost planet was wealth a-plenty, and I didn't want it all mined out before I got my share.

Popping the button on the base, I waited the few seconds necessary for the contents of the can to heat, while staring at the silvery Earth, almost full at this time of the month.  'Sometimes I think you'd pot the Earth if you had a long enough cue,' I remarked idly.  'I wonder what kind of odds I could get for that?'

'No pocket!' said Frobisher, from the driving seat, 'Not unless you count the pockets of dust.'  While he and Jonesy were arguing the logistics of potting an object into an orifice much smaller than itself, I became aware that Sparky had a faraway look on his ugly mug.

'Boss!' he murmured, 'I think that idiot just gave me an idea.'  Turning to his console, his fingers flew over his computer controls.  'Yes, yes, yes!  Jonesy, c'mere and give me a hand with something.  Boss, if you want us to save your fat ass, you'll get it out the way and give us geniuses some elbow room!'

Too intrigued at what he was doing to take offence at such blatant disrespect for his Commander, I refrained from commenting, but moved aside.  Frobisher helped by suiting up and taking our cook Wishy Washy outside to practice some putting, giving us all the elbow room we needed.

Two cans of coffee later, Sparky flexed his aching fingers and leaned back in his seat.

'Got it, Boss,' he announced with a smug look.  'We could be in luck, if the Cushion King has his angles right.'

'In English please!'

'Well, the Hubble satellite is over the back side of the Moon for the next month, and we can't wait for that to make its appearance, so Jonesy reckons he can bounce a radio signal off the Earth itself.  If he can get enough side on it, it'll deflect straight to Selene, and the Seventh Cavalry will be coming over them thar hills before you can say Walter Lindrum!'

'Why not just radio Mission Control in Houston?  That would be easier, and more certain of success,' I protested, while knowing that I was going to be howled down by this crew of individuals, misfits and crackpots that was all that was to be had on the moon in those days.

'No way!' chortled Jonesy, using an imaginary cue to pot an imaginary ball into the waste disposal unit.  'I want me an unbeatable reputation, and with Sparksie as my manager, we'll clean up in any snooker tournament on any world, and we can kiss this hick dump goodbye!'

As every schoolboy knows, the idea worked, and has become known as the Jones bank shot.  The rescue team turned up by short-range rocket with a replacement tyre, and we arrived in Imbrium only two days late.   Last I heard, Jones and Sparky were on Ganymede, still fleecing the locals as they headed out to the farthest reaches of the solar system.  After all, with such a reputation, it was becoming ever harder to find a sucker willing to take a chance.  I figure that they snookered themselves!