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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43235 ***
+
+                     FIRST on the MOON
+
+                      by JEFF SUTTON
+
+
+    ACE BOOKS, INC.
+    1120 Avenue of the Americas
+    New York 36, N.Y.
+
+    FIRST ON THE MOON
+
+    Copyright ©, 1958, by Ace Books, Inc.
+
+    All Rights Reserved
+
+    Printed in U. S. A.
+
+
+    TO SANDY
+
+
+
+
+                       SUICIDE RACE TO LUNA
+
+
+    The four men had been scrutinized, watched, investigated, and
+    intensively trained for more than a year. They were the best men to
+    be found for that first, all-important flight to the Moon--the
+    pioneer manned rocket that would give either the East or the West
+    control over the Earth.
+
+    Yet when the race started, Adam Crag found that he had a saboteur
+    among his crew ... a traitor! Such a man could give the Reds
+    possession of Luna, and thereby dominate the world it circled.
+
+    Any one of the other three could be the hidden enemy, and if he
+    didn't discover the agent soon--even while they were roaring on
+    rocket jets through outer space--then Adam Crag, his expedition, and
+    his country would be destroyed!
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE
+
+
+One of the rockets was silver; three were ashen gray. Each nested in a
+different spot on the great Western Desert. All were long, tapered,
+sisters except for color. In a way they represented the first, and last,
+of an era, with exotic propellants, a high mass ratio and three-stage
+design. Yet they were not quite alike. One of the sisters had within her
+the artifacts the human kind needed for life--a space cabin high in the
+nose. The remaining sisters were drones, beasts of burden, but beasts
+which carried scant payloads considering their bulk.
+
+One thing they had in common--destination. They rested on their launch
+pads, with scaffolds almost cleared, heads high and proud. Soon they
+would flash skyward, one by one, seeking a relatively small haven on a
+strange bleak world. The world was the moon; the bleak place was called
+Arzachel, a crater--stark, alien, with tall cliffs brooding over an ashy
+plain.
+
+Out on the West Coast a successor to the sisters was shaping up--a great
+ship of a new age, with nuclear drive and a single stage. But the
+sisters could not wait for their successor. Time was running out.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+The room was like a prison--at least to Adam Crag. It was a square with
+a narrow bunk, a battered desk, two straight-back chairs and little
+else. Its one small window overlooked the myriad quonsets and buildings
+of Burning Sands Base from the second floor of a nearly empty dormitory.
+
+There was a sentry at the front of the building, another at the rear.
+Silent alert men who never spoke to Crag--seldom acknowledged his
+movements to and from the building--yet never let a stranger approach
+the weathered dorm without sharp challenge. Night and day they were
+there. From his window he could see the distant launch site and, by
+night, the batteries of floodlights illumining the metal monster on the
+pad. But now he wasn't thinking of the rocket. He was fretting; fuming
+because of a call from Colonel Michael Gotch.
+
+"Don't stir from the room," Gotch had crisply ordered on the phone. He
+had hung up without explanation. That had been two hours before.
+
+Crag had finished dressing--he had a date--idly wondering what was in
+the Colonel's mind. The fretting had only set in when, after more than
+an hour, Gotch had failed to show. Greg's liberty had been restricted to
+one night a month. One measly night, he thought. Now he was wasting it,
+tossing away the precious hours. Waiting. Waiting for what?
+
+"I'm a slave," he told himself viciously; "slave to a damned bird
+colonel." His date wouldn't wait--wasn't the waiting kind. But he
+couldn't leave.
+
+He stopped pacing long enough to look at himself in the cracked mirror
+above his desk. The face that stared back was lean, hard, unlined--skin
+that told of wind and sun, not brown nor bronze but more of a mahogany
+red. Just now the face was frowning. The eyes were wide-spaced, hazel,
+the nose arrogant and hawkish. A thin white scar ran over one cheek
+ending.
+
+His mind registered movement behind him. He swiveled around, flexing his
+body, balanced on his toes, then relaxed, slightly mortified.
+
+Gotch--Colonel Michael Gotch--stood just inside the door eyeing him
+tolerantly. A flush crept over Crag's face. Damn Gotch and his velvet
+feet, he thought. But he kept the thought concealed.
+
+The expression on Gotch's face was replaced by a wooden mask. He studied
+the lean man by the mirror for a moment, then flipped his cap on the bed
+and sat down without switching his eyes.
+
+He said succinctly. "You're it."
+
+"I've got it?" Crag gave an audible sigh of relief. Gotch nodded without
+speaking.
+
+"What about Temple?"
+
+"Killed last night--flattened by a truck that came over the center-line.
+On an almost deserted highway just outside the base," Gotch added. He
+spoke casually but his eyes were not casual. They were unfathomable
+black pools. Opaque and hard. Crag wrinkled his brow inquiringly.
+
+"Accident?"
+
+"You know better than that. The truck was hot, a semi with bum plates,
+and no driver when the cops got there." His voice turned harsh. "No ...
+it was no accident."
+
+"I'm sorry," Crag said quietly. He hadn't known Temple personally. He
+had been just a name--a whispered name. One of three names, to be exact:
+Romer, Temple, Crag. Each had been hand-picked as possible pilots of the
+Aztec, a modified missile being rushed to completion in a last ditch
+effort to beat the Eastern World in the race for the moon. They had been
+separately indoctrinated, tested, trained; each had virtually lived in
+one of the scale-size simulators of the Aztec's space cabin, and had
+been rigorously schooled for the operation secretly referred to as "Step
+One." But they had been kept carefully apart. There had been a time when
+no one--unless it were the grim-faced Gotch--knew which of the three was
+first choice.
+
+Romer had died first--killed as a bystander in a brawl. So the police
+said. Crag had suspected differently. Now Temple. The choice, after all,
+had not been the swarthy Colonel's to make. Somehow the knowledge
+pleased him. Gotch interrupted his thoughts.
+
+"Things are happening. The chips are down. Time has run out, Adam."
+While he clipped the words out he weighed Crag, as if seeking some clue
+to his thoughts. His face said that everything now depended upon the
+lean man with the hairline scar across his cheek. His eyes momentarily
+wondered if the lean man could perform what man never before had done.
+But his lips didn't voice the doubt. After a moment he said:
+
+"We know the East is behind us in developing an atomic spaceship. Quite
+a bit behind. We picked up a lot from some of our atomic sub work--that
+and our big missiles. But maybe the knowledge made us lax." He added
+stridently:
+
+"Now ... they're ready to launch."
+
+"Now?"
+
+"Now!"
+
+"I didn't think they were that close."
+
+"Intelligence tells us they've modified a couple of T-3's--the big ICBM
+model. We just got a line on it ... almost too late." Gotch smiled
+bleakly. "So we've jumped our schedule, at great risk. It's your baby,"
+he added.
+
+Crag said simply; "I'm glad of the chance."
+
+"You should be. You've hung around long enough," Gotch said dryly. His
+eyes probed Crag. "I only hope you've learned enough ... are ready."
+
+"Plenty ready," snapped Crag.
+
+"I hope so."
+
+Gotch got to his feet, a square fiftyish man with cropped iron-gray
+hair, thick shoulders and weather-roughened skin. Clearly he wasn't a
+desk colonel.
+
+"You've got a job, Adam." His voice was unexpectedly soft but he
+continued to weigh Crag for a long moment before he picked up his cap
+and turned toward the door.
+
+"Wait," he said. He paused, listening for a moment before he opened it,
+then slipped quietly into the hall, closing the door carefully behind
+him.
+
+He's like a cat, Crag thought for the thousandth time, watching the
+closed door. He was a man who seemed forever listening; a heavy hulking
+man who walked on velvet feet; a man with opaque eyes who saw everything
+and told nothing. Gotch would return.
+
+Despite the fact the grizzled Colonel had been his mentor for over a
+year he felt he hardly knew the man. He was high up in the missile
+program--missile security, Crag had supposed--yet he seemed to hold
+power far greater than that of a security officer. He seemed, in fact,
+to have full charge of the Aztec project--Step One--even though Dr.
+Kenneth Walmsbelt was its official director. The difference was, the
+nation knew Walmsbelt. He talked with congressmen, pleaded for money,
+carried his program to the newspapers and was a familiar figure on the
+country's TV screens. He was the leading exponent of the
+space-can't-wait philosophy. But few people knew Gotch; and fewer yet
+his connections. He was capable, competent, and to Crag's way of
+thinking, a tough monkey, which pretty well summarized his knowledge of
+the man.
+
+He felt the elation welling inside him, growing until it was almost a
+painful pleasure. It had been born of months and months of hope, over a
+year during which he had scarcely dared hope. Now, because a man had
+died....
+
+He sat looking at the ceiling, thinking, trying to still the inner
+tumult. Only outwardly was he calm. He heard footsteps returning. Gotch
+opened the door and entered, followed by a second man. Crag started
+involuntarily, half-rising from his chair.
+
+He was looking at himself!
+
+"Crag, meet Adam Crag." The Colonel's voice and face were
+expressionless. Crag extended his hand, feeling a little silly.
+
+"Glad to know you."
+
+The newcomer acknowledged the introduction with a grin--the same kind of
+lopsided grin the real Crag wore. More startling was the selfsame
+hairline scar traversing his cheek; the same touch of cockiness in the
+set of his face.
+
+Gotch said, "I just wanted you to get a good look at yourself. Crag
+here"--he motioned his hand toward the newcomer--"is your official
+double. What were you planning for tonight, your last night on earth?"
+
+"I have a date with Ann. Or had," he added sourly. He twisted his head
+toward Gotch as the Colonel's words sunk home. "Last night?"
+
+Gotch disregarded the question. "For what?"
+
+"Supper and dancing at the Blue Door."
+
+"Then?"
+
+"Take her home, if it's any of your damned business," snapped Crag. "I
+wasn't planning on staying, if that's what you mean."
+
+"I know ... I know, we have you on a chart," Gotch said amiably. "We
+know every move you've made since you wet your first diapers. Like that
+curvy little brunette secretary out in San Diego, or that blonde night
+club warbler you were rushing in Las Vegas." Crag flushed. The Colonel
+eyed him tolerantly.
+
+"And plenty more," he added. He glanced at Crag's double. "I'm sure your
+twin will be happy to fill in for you tonight."
+
+"Like hell he will," gritted Crag. The room was quiet for a moment.
+
+"As I said, he'll fill in for you."
+
+Crag grinned crookedly. "Ann won't go for it. She's used to the real
+article."
+
+"We're not giving her a chance to snafu the works," Gotch said grimly.
+"She's in protective custody. We have a double for her, too."
+
+"Mind explaining?"
+
+"Not a bit. Let's face the facts and admit both Romer and Temple were
+murdered. That leaves only you. The enemy isn't about to let us get the
+Aztec into space. You're the only pilot left who's been trained for the
+big jump--the only man with the specialized know-how. That's why you're
+on someone's list. Perhaps, even, someone here at the Base ... or on the
+highway ... or in town. I don't know when or how but I do know this:
+You're a marked monkey."
+
+Gotch added flatly: "I don't propose to let you get murdered."
+
+"How about him?" Crag nodded toward his double. The man smiled faintly.
+
+"That's what he's paid for," Gotch said unfeelingly. His lips curled
+sardonically. "All the heroes aren't in space."
+
+Crag flushed. Gotch had a way of making him uncomfortable as no other
+man ever had. The gentle needle. But it was true. The Aztec was his
+baby. Gotch's role was to see that he lived long enough to get it into
+space. The rest was up to him. Something about the situation struck him
+as humorous. He looked at his double with a wry grin.
+
+"Home and to bed early," he cautioned. "Don't forget you've got my
+reputation to uphold."
+
+"Go to hell," his double said amiably.
+
+"Okay, let's get down to business," Gotch growled. "I've got a little to
+say."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Long after they left Crag stood at the small window, looking out over
+the desert. Somewhere out there was the Aztec, a silver arrow crouched
+in its cradle, its nose pointed toward the stars. He drew the picture in
+his mind. She stood on her tail fins; a six-story-tall needle braced by
+metal catwalks and guard rails; a cousin twice-removed to the great
+nuclear weapons which guarded Fortress America. He had seen her at
+night, under the batteries of floor lights, agleam with a milky
+radiance; a virgin looking skyward, which, in fact, she was. Midway
+along her length her diameter tapered abruptly, tapered again beyond the
+three-quarters point. Her nose looked slender compared with her body,
+yet it contained a space cabin with all the panoply needed to sustain
+life beyond the atmosphere.
+
+His thoughts were reverent, if not loving. Save for occasional too-brief
+intervals with Ann, the ship had dominated his life for over a year. He
+knew her more intimately, he thought, than a long-married man knows his
+wife.
+
+He had never ceased to marvel at the Aztec's complexity. Everything
+about the rocket spoke of the future. She was clearly designed to
+perform in a time not yet come, at a place not yet known. She would fly,
+watching the stars, continuously measuring the angle between them,
+computing her way through the abyss of space. Like a woman she would
+understand the deep currents within her, the introspective sensing of
+every force which had an effect upon her life. She would measure
+gravitation, acceleration and angular velocity with infinite precision.
+She would count these as units of time, perform complex mathematical
+equations, translate them into course data, and find her way unerringly
+across the purple-black night which separated her from her assignation
+with destiny. She would move with the certainty of a woman fleeing to
+her lover. Yes, he thought, he would put his life in the lady's hands.
+He would ride with her on swift wings. But he would be her master.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+His mood changed. He turned from the window thinking it was a hell of a
+way to spend his last night. Last night on earth, he corrected wryly. He
+couldn't leave the room, couldn't budge, didn't know where Ann was. No
+telephone. He went to bed wondering how he'd ever let himself get
+snookered into the deal. Here he was, young, with a zest for life and a
+stacked-up gal on the string. And what was he doing about it? Going to
+the moon, that's what. Going to some damned hell-hole called Arzachel,
+all because a smooth bird colonel had pitched him a few soft words.
+Sucker!
+
+His lips twisted in a crooked grin. Gotch had seduced him by describing
+his mission as an "out-of-this-world opportunity." Those had been
+Gotch's words. Well, that was Arzachel. And pretty quick it would be
+Adam Crag. Out-of-this-world Crag. Just now the thought wasn't so
+appealing.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Sleep didn't come easy. At Gotch's orders he had turned in early, at the
+unheard hour of seven. Getting to sleep was another matter. It's
+strange, he thought, he didn't have any of the feelings Doc Weldon, the
+psychiatrist, had warned him of. He wasn't nervous, wasn't afraid. Yet
+before another sun had set he'd be driving the Aztec up from earth, into
+the loneliness of space, to a bleak crater named Arzachel. He would face
+the dangers of intense cosmic radiation, chance meteor swarms, and human
+errors in calculation which could spell disaster. It would be the first
+step in the world race for control of the Solar System--a crucial race
+with the small nations of the world watching for the winner. Watching
+and waiting to see which way to lean.
+
+He was already cut off from mankind, imprisoned in a small room with
+the momentous zero hour drawing steadily nearer. Strange, he thought,
+there had been a time when his career had seemed ended, washed up,
+finished, the magic of the stratosphere behind him for good. Sure, he'd
+resigned from the Air Force at his own free will, even if his C. O. had
+made the pointed suggestion. Because he hadn't blindly followed orders.
+Because he'd believed in making his own decisions when the chips were
+down. "Lack of _esprit de corps_," his C. O. had termed it.
+
+He'd been surprised that night--it was over a year ago now--that Colonel
+Gotch had contacted him. (Just when he was wondering where he might get
+a job. He hadn't liked the prosaic prospects of pushing passengers
+around the country in some jet job.) Sure, he'd jumped at the offer. But
+the question had never left his mind. _Why had Gotch selected him?_ The
+Aztec, a silver needle plunging through space followed by her drones,
+all in his tender care. He was planning the step-by-step procedure of
+take-off when sleep came.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+Crag woke with a start, sensing he was not alone. The sound came
+again--a key being fitted into a lock. He started from bed as the door
+swung open.
+
+"Easy. It's me--Gotch." Crag relaxed. A square solid figure took form.
+
+"Don't turn on the light."
+
+"Okay. What gives?"
+
+"One moment." Gotch turned back toward the door and beckoned. Another
+figure glided into the room--a shadow in the dim light. Crag caught the
+glint of a uniform. Air Force officer, he thought.
+
+Gotch said crisply; "Out of bed."
+
+He climbed out, standing alongside the bed in his shorts, wondering at
+the Colonel's cloak-and-dagger approach.
+
+"Okay, Major, it's your turn," Gotch said.
+
+The newcomer--Crag saw he was a major--methodically stripped down to his
+shorts and got into bed without a word. Crag grinned, wondering how the
+Major liked his part in Step One. It was scarcely a lead role.
+
+Gotch cut into his thoughts. "Get dressed." He indicated the Major's
+uniform. Crag donned the garments silently. When he had finished the
+Colonel walked around him in the dark, studying him from all angles.
+
+"Seems to fit very well," he said finally. "All right, let's go."
+
+Crag followed him from the room wondering what the unknown Major must be
+thinking. He wanted to ask about his double but refrained. Long ago he
+had learned there was a time to talk, and a time to keep quiet. This was
+the quiet time. At the outer door four soldiers sprang from the darkness
+and boxed them in. A chauffeur jumped from a waiting car and opened the
+rear door. At the last moment Crag stepped aside and made a mock bow.
+
+"After you, Colonel." His voice held a touch of sarcasm.
+
+Gotch grunted and climbed into the rear seat and he followed. The
+chauffeur blinked his lights twice before starting the engine. Somewhere
+ahead a car pulled away from the curb. They followed, leaving the four
+soldiers behind. Crag twisted his body and looked curiously out the rear
+window. Another car dogged their wake. Precautions, always precautions,
+he thought. Gotch had entered with an Air Force officer and had
+ostensibly left with one; ergo, it must be the same officer. He
+chuckled, thinking he had more doubles than a movie star.
+
+They sped through the night with the escorts fore and aft. Gotch was a
+silent hulking form on the seat beside him. It's his zero hour, too,
+Crag thought. The Colonel had tossed the dice. Now he was waiting for
+their fall, with his career in the pot. After a while Gotch said
+conversationally:
+
+"You'll report in at Albrook, Major. I imagine you'll be getting in a
+bit of flying from here on out."
+
+Talking for the chauffeur's benefit, Crag thought. Good Lord, did every
+move have to be cloak and dagger? Aloud he said:
+
+"Be good to get back in the air again. Perhaps anti-sub patrol, eh?"
+
+"Very likely."
+
+They fell silent again. The car skimmed west on Highway 80, leaving the
+silver rocket farther behind with every mile. Where to and what next? He
+gave up trying to figure the Colonel's strategy. One thing he was sure
+of. The hard-faced man next to him knew exactly what he was doing. If it
+was secret agent stuff, then that's the way it had to be played.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He leaned back and thought of the task ahead--the rocket he had lived
+with for over a year. Now the marriage would be consummated. Every
+detail of the Aztec was vivid in his mind. Like the three great motors
+tucked triangularly between her tail fins, each a tank equipped with a
+flaring nozzle to feed in hot gases under pressure. He pictured the fuel
+tanks just forward of the engines; the way the fuels were mixed,
+vaporized, forced into the fireports where they would ignite and react
+explosively, generating the enormous volumes of flaming hot gas to drive
+out through the jet tubes and provide the tremendous thrust needed to
+boost her into the skies. Between the engines and fuel tanks was a maze
+of machinery--fuel lines, speed controllers, electric motors.
+
+He let his mind rove over the rocket thinking that before many hours
+had passed he would need every morsel of the knowledge he had so
+carefully gathered. Midway where the hull tapered was a joint, the
+separation point between the first and second stages. The second stage
+had one engine fed by two tanks. The exterior of the second stage was
+smooth, finless, for it was designed to operate at the fringe of space
+where the air molecules were widely spaced; but it could be steered by
+small deflectors mounted in its blast stream.
+
+The third stage was little more than a space cabin riding between the
+tapered nose cone and a single relatively low-thrust engine. Between the
+engine and tanks was a maze of turbines, pumps, meters, motors, wires. A
+generator provided electricity for the ship's electric and electronic
+equipment; this in turn was spun by a turbine driven by the explosive
+decomposition of hydrogen peroxide. Forward of this was the Brain, a
+complex guidance mechanism which monitored engine performance, kept
+track of speed, computed course. All that was needed was the human hand.
+His hand.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They traveled several hours with only occasional words, purring across
+the flat sandy wastes at a steady seventy. The cars boxing them in kept
+at a steady distance.
+
+Crag watched the yellow headlights sweep across the sage lining the
+highway, giving an odd illusion of movement. Light and shadow danced in
+eerie patterns. The chauffeur turned onto a two-lane road heading north.
+Alpine Base, Crag thought. He had been stationed there several years
+before. Now it was reputed to be the launch site of one of the three
+drones slated to cross the gulfs of space. The chauffeur drove past a
+housing area and turned in the direction he knew the strip to be.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Somewhere in the darkness ahead a drone brooded on its pad, one of the
+children of the silver missile they'd left behind. But why the drone?
+The question bothered him. They were stopped several times in the next
+half mile. Each time Gotch gave his name and rank and extended his
+credentials. Each time they were waved on by silent sharp-eyed sentries,
+but only after an exacting scrutiny. Crag was groping for answers when
+the chauffeur pulled to one side of the road and stopped. He leaped out
+and opened the rear door, standing silently to one side. When they
+emerged, he got back into the car and drove away. No word had been
+spoken. Figures moved toward them, coming out of the blackness.
+
+"Stand where you are and be recognized." The figures took
+shape--soldiers with leveled rifles. They stood very still until one
+wearing a captain's bars approached, flashing a light in their faces.
+
+"Identity?"
+
+Crag's companion extended his credentials.
+
+"Colonel Michael Gotch," he monotoned. The Captain turned the light on
+Gotch's face to compare it with the picture on the identification card.
+He paid scant attention to Crag. Finally he looked up.
+
+"Proceed, Sir." It was evident the Colonel's guest was very much
+expected.
+
+Gotch struck off through the darkness with Crag at his heels. The stars
+shone with icy brilliance. Overhead Antares stared down from its lair in
+Scorpio, blinking with fearful venom. The smell of sage filled the air,
+and some sweet elusive odor Crag couldn't identify. A warmth stole
+upward as the furnace of the desert gave up its stored heat. He strained
+his eyes into the darkness; stars, the black desert ... and the hulking
+form of Gotch, moving with certain steps.
+
+He saw the rocket with startling suddenness--a great black silhouette
+blotting out a segment of the stars. It stood gigantic, towering,
+graceful, a taper-nosed monster crouched to spring, its finned haunches
+squatted against the launch pad.
+
+They were stopped, challenged, allowed to proceed. Crag pondered the
+reason for their visit to the drone. Gotch, he knew, had a good reason
+for every move he made. They drew nearer and he saw that most of the
+catwalks, guardrails and metal supports had been removed--a certain sign
+that the giant before them was near its zero hour.
+
+Another sentry gave challenge at the base of the behemoth. Crag whistled
+to himself. This one wore the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel! The
+ritual of identification was exacting before the sentry moved aside. A
+ladder zigzagged upward through what skeletal framework still remained.
+Crag lifted his eyes. It terminated high up, near the nose.
+
+This was the Aztec! The real Aztec! The truth came in a rush. The huge
+silver ship at Burning Sands, which bore the name Aztec, was merely a
+fake, a subterfuge, a pawn in the complex game of agents and
+counter-agents. He knew he was right.
+
+"After you," Gotch said. He indicated the ladder and stepped aside.
+
+Crag started up. He paused at the third platform. The floor of the
+desert was a sea of darkness. Off in the distance the lights of Alpine
+Base gleamed, stark against the night. Gotch reached his level and laid
+a restraining hand on his arm.
+
+Crag turned and waited. The Colonel's massive form was a black shadow
+interposed between him and the lights of Alpine Base.
+
+"This is the Aztec," he said simply.
+
+"So I guessed. And the silver job at Burning Sands?"
+
+"Drone Able," Gotch explained. "The deception was necessary--a part of
+the cat and mouse game we've been playing the last couple of decades. We
+couldn't take a single chance." Crag remained silent. The Colonel turned
+toward the lights of the Base. He had become quiet, reflective. When he
+spoke, his voice was soft, almost like a man talking to himself.
+
+"Out there are hundreds of men who have given a large part of their
+lives to the dream of space flight. Now we are at the eve of making that
+dream live. If we gain the moon, we gain the planets. That's the destiny
+of Man. The Aztec is the first step." He turned back and faced Crag.
+
+"This is but one base. There are many others. Beyond them are the
+factories, laboratories, colleges, scientists and engineers, right down
+to Joe the Riveter. Every one of them has had a part in the dream.
+You're another part, Adam, but you happen to have the lead role." He
+swiveled around and looked silently at the distant lights. The moment
+was solemn. A slight shiver ran through Crag's body.
+
+"You know and I know that the Aztec is a development from the ICBM's
+guarding Fortress America. You also know, or have heard, that out in San
+Diego the first atom-powered spaceship is nearing completion." He looked
+sharply at Crag.
+
+"I've heard," Crag said noncommittally.
+
+Gotch eyed him steadily. "That's the point. So have others. Our space
+program is no secret. But we've suspected--feared--that the first stab
+at deep space would be made before the atom job was completed. Not
+satellites but deep space rockets. That's why the Aztec was pushed
+through so fast." He fell silent. Crag waited.
+
+"Well, the worst has happened. The enemy is ready to launch--may have
+launched this very night. That's how close it is. Fortunately our gamble
+with the Aztec is paying off. We're ready, too, Adam.
+
+"We're going to get that moon. Get it now!" He reached into a pocket and
+extracted his pipe, then thought better of lighting it. Crag waited. The
+Colonel was in a rare introspective mood, a quiet moment in which he
+mentally tied together and weighed his Nation's prospects in the
+frightening days ahead. Finally he spoke:
+
+"We put a rocket around the moon, Adam." He smiled faintly, noting
+Crag's involuntary start of surprise. "Naturally it was fully
+instrumented. There's uranium there--one big load located in the most
+inaccessible spot imaginable."
+
+"Arzachel," Crag said simply.
+
+"The south side of Arzachel, to be exact. That's why we didn't pick a
+soft touch like Mare Imbrium, in case you've wondered."
+
+"I've wondered."
+
+"Adam," the Colonel hesitated a long moment, "does the name Pickering
+mean anything to you?"
+
+"Ken Pickering who--"
+
+"What have you heard?" snapped Gotch. His eyes became sharp drills.
+
+Crag spoke slowly: "Nothing ... for a long time. He just seemed to drop
+out of sight after he broke the altitude record in the X-34." He looked
+up questioningly.
+
+"Frankly, I've always wondered why he hadn't been selected for this job.
+I thought he was a better pilot than I am," he added almost humbly.
+
+Gotch said bluntly: "You're right. He is better." He smiled tolerantly.
+"We picked our men for particular jobs," he said finally. "Pickering ...
+we hope ... will be in orbit before the Aztec blasts off."
+
+"Satelloid?"
+
+"The first true satelloid," the Colonel agreed. "One that can ride the
+fringes of space around the earth. A satelloid with fantastic altitude
+and speed. I'm telling you this because he'll be a link in Step One, a
+communication and observation link. He won't be up long, of course, but
+long enough--we hope."
+
+Silence fell between them. Crag looked past the Colonel's shoulder. All
+at once the lights of Alpine Base seemed warm and near, almost personal.
+Gotch lifted his eyes skyward, symbolic of his dreams. The light of
+distant stars reflected off his brow.
+
+"We don't know whether the Aztec can make it," he said humbly. "We
+don't know whether our space-lift system will work, whether the drones
+can be monitored down to such a precise point on the moon, or the
+dangers of meteorite bombardment. We don't know whether our safeguards
+for human life are adequate. We don't know whether the opposition can
+stop us....
+
+"We don't know lots of things, Adam. All we know is that we need the
+moon. It's a matter of survival of Western Man, his culture, his way of
+life, his political integrity. We need the moon to conquer the
+planets ... and some day the stars."
+
+His voice became a harsh clang.
+
+"So does the enemy. That's why we have to establish a proprietory
+ownership, a claim that the U.N. will recognize. The little nations
+represent the balance of power, Adam. But they sway with the political
+winds. They are the reeds of power politics ... swaying between the
+Sputniks and Explorers, riding with the ebb and flow of power ... always
+trying to anticipate the ultimate winner. Right now they're watching to
+see where that power lies. The nation that wins the moon will tilt the
+balance in its favor. At a critical time, I might add. That's why we
+have to protect ourselves every inch of the way."
+
+He tapped his cold pipe moodily against his hand. "We won't be here to
+see the end results, of course. That won't be in our time. But we're the
+starters. The Aztec is the pioneer ship. And in the future our economy
+can use that load of uranium up there."
+
+He smiled faintly at Crag. "When you step through the hatch you've left
+earth, perhaps for all time. That's your part in the plan. Step One is
+your baby and I have confidence in you." He gripped Crag's arm warmly.
+It was the closest he had ever come to showing his feelings toward the
+man he was sending into space.
+
+"Come on, let's go."
+
+Crag started upward. Gotch followed more slowly, climbing like a man
+bearing a heavy weight.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Aztec's crew, Max Prochaska, Gordon Nagel and Martin Larkwell, came
+aboard the rocket in the last hour before take-off. Gotch escorted them
+up the ladder and introduced them to their new Commander.
+
+Prochaska acknowledged the introduction with a cheerful smile.
+
+"Glad to know you, Skipper." His thin warm face said he was glad to be
+there.
+
+Gordon Nagel gave a perfunctory handshake, taking in the space cabin
+with quick ferret-like head movements.
+
+Martin Larkwell smiled genially, pumping Crag's hand. "I've been looking
+forward to this."
+
+Crag said dryly. "We all have." He acknowledged the introductions with
+the distinct feeling that he already knew each member of his crew. It
+was the odd feeling of meeting old acquaintances after long years of
+separation. As part of his indoctrination he had studied the personnel
+records of the men he might be so dependent on. Now, seeing them in the
+flesh, was merely an act of giving life to those selfsame records. He
+studied them with casual eyes while Gotch rambled toward an awkward
+farewell.
+
+Max Prochaska, his electronics chief, was a slender man with sparse
+brown hair, a thin acquiline nose and pointed jaw. His pale blue eyes,
+thin lips and alabaster skin gave him a delicate look--one belied by his
+record. His chief asset--if one was to believe the record--was that he
+was a genius in electronics.
+
+Gordon Nagel, too, was, thin-faced and pallid skinned. His black hair,
+normally long and wavy, had been close-cropped. His eyes were small,
+shifting, agate-black, giving Crag the feeling that he was uneasy--an
+impression he was to hold. His record had described him as nervous in
+manner but his psychograph was smooth. He was an expert in oxygen
+systems.
+
+Martin Larkwell, the mechanical maintenance and construction boss, in
+many ways appeared the antithesis of his two companions. He was
+moon-faced, dark, with short brown hair and a deceptively sleepy look.
+His round body was well-muscled, his hands big and square. Crag thought
+of a sleek drowsy cat, until he saw his eyes. They were sparkling brown
+pools, glittering, moving with some strange inner fire. They were the
+eyes of a dreamer ... or a fanatic, he thought. In the cabin's soft
+light they glowed, flickered. No, there was nothing sleepy about him, he
+decided.
+
+All of the men were short, light, in their early thirties. In contrast
+Crag, at 5' 10" and 165 pounds, seemed a veritable giant. A small
+physique, he knew, was almost an essential in space, where every ounce
+was bought at tremendous added weight in fuel. His own weight had been a
+serious strike against him.
+
+Colonel Gotch made one final trip to the space cabin. This time he
+brought the _Moon Code Manual_ (stamped TOP SECRET), the crew personnel
+records (Crag wondered why) and a newly printed pamphlet titled "Moon
+Survival." Crag grinned when he saw it.
+
+"Does it tell us how to get there, too?"
+
+"We'll write that chapter later," Gotch grunted. He shook each man's
+hand and gruffly wished them luck before turning abruptly toward the
+hatch. He started down the ladder. A moment later his head reappeared.
+
+He looked sharply at Crag and said, "By the way, that twosome at the
+Blue Door got it last night."
+
+"You mean...?"
+
+"Burp gun. No finesse. Just sheer desperation. Well, I just wanted to
+let you know we weren't altogether crazy."
+
+"I didn't think you were."
+
+The Colonel's lips wrinkled in a curious smile. "No?" He looked at Crag
+for a long moment. "Good luck." His head disappeared from view and Crag
+heard his footsteps descending the ladder.
+
+Then they were alone, four men alone. Crag turned toward his companions.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+The great red sun was just breaking over the desert horizon when Crag
+got his last good look at earth. Its rays slanted upward, shadows fled
+from the sage; the obsidian sky with its strewn diamonds became slate
+gray and, in moments, a pale washed blue. Daybreak over the desert
+became a thunder of light. Tiny ants had removed the last of the metal
+framework encompassing the rocket. Other ants were visible making last
+minute cheeks.
+
+He returned his attention to the space cabin. Despite long months of
+training in the cabin simulator--an exact replica of the Aztec
+quarters--he was appalled at the lack of outside vision. One narrow
+rectangular quartz window above the control panel, a circular port on
+each side bulkhead and one on the floor--he had to look between his
+knees to see through it when seated at the controls--provided the sole
+visual access to the outside world. A single large radarscope, a radar
+altimeter and other electronic equipment provided analogs of the outside
+world; the reconstruction of the exterior environment painted on the
+scopes by electromagnetic impulses.
+
+The cabin was little more than a long flat-floored cylinder with most
+of the instrumentation in the nose section. With the rocket in launch
+position, what normally was the rear wall formed the floor. The seats
+had been swiveled out to operational position.
+
+Now they were seated, strapped down, waiting. It was, Crag thought, like
+sitting in a large automobile which had been balanced on its rear
+bumper. During launch and climb their backs would be horizontal to the
+earth's surface.
+
+He was thankful they were not required to wear their heavy pressure
+suits until well into the moon's gravisphere. Normally pressure suits
+and helmets were the order of the day. He was used to stratospheric
+flight where heavy pressure suits and helmets were standard equipment;
+gear to protect the fragile human form until the lower oxygen-rich
+regions of the air ocean could be reached in event of trouble. But the
+Aztec was an all-or-nothing affair. There were no escape provisions, no
+ejection seats, for ejection would be impossible at the rocket's speeds
+during its critical climb through the atmosphere. Either everything went
+according to the book or ... or else, he concluded grimly. But it had
+one good aspect. Aside from the heavy safety harnessing, he would be
+free of the intolerably clumsy suit until moonfall. If anything went
+wrong, well ...
+
+He bit the thought off, feeling the tension building inside him. He had
+never considered himself the hero type. He had prided himself that his
+ability to handle hot planes was a reflection of his competence rather
+than courage. Courage, to him, meant capable performance in the face of
+fear. He had never known fear in any type of aircraft, hence never
+before had courage been a requisite of his job. It was that simple to
+him. His thorough knowledge of the Aztec's theoretical flight
+characteristics had given him extreme confidence, thus the feeling of
+tension was distracting. He held his hand out. It seemed steady enough.
+
+Prochaska caught the gesture and said, "I'm a little shaky myself."
+
+Crag grinned. "They tell me the first thousand miles are the hardest."
+
+"Amen. After that I won't worry."
+
+The countdown had begun. Crag looked out the side port. Tiny figures
+were withdrawing from the base of the rocket. The engine of a fuel truck
+sounded faintly, then died away. Everything seemed unhurried, routine.
+He found himself admiring the men who went so matter-of-factly about the
+job of hurling a rocket into the gulfs between planets. Once, during his
+indoctrination, he had watched a Thor firing ... had seen the missile
+climb into the sky, building up to orbital speed. Its launchers had been
+the same sort of men--unhurried, methodical, checking the minutiae that
+went into such an effort. Only this time there was a difference. The
+missile contained men.
+
+Off to one side he saw the launch crew moving into an instrumented
+dugout. Colonel Gotch would be there, puffing on his pipe, his face
+expressionless, watching the work of many years come to ... what?
+
+He looked around the cabin for the hundredth time. Larkwell and Nagel
+were strapped in their seats, backs horizontal to the floor, looking up
+at him. The tremendous forces of acceleration applied at right angles to
+the spine--transverse g--was far more tolerable than in any other
+position. Or so the space medicine men said. He hoped they were right,
+that in this position the body could withstand the hell ahead. He gave a
+last look at the two men behind him. Larkwell wore an owlish expression.
+His teeth were clamped tight, cording his jaws. Nagel's face was intent,
+its lines rigid. It gave Crag the odd impression of an alabaster
+sculpture. Prochaska, who occupied the seat next to him facing the
+control panels, was testing his safety belts.
+
+Crag gave him a quick sidelong glance. Prochaska's job was in many
+respects as difficult as his own. Perhaps more so. The sallow-faced
+electronics chief bore the responsibility of monitoring the
+drones--shepherding, first Drone Able, then its sisters to
+follow--across the vacuum gulfs and, finally, into Arzachel, a pinpoint
+cavity in the rocky wastelands of the moon. In addition, he was charged
+with monitoring, repairing and installing all the communication and
+electronic equipment, no small job in itself. Yes, a lot depended on the
+almost fragile man sitting alongside him. He looked at his own
+harnessing, testing its fit.
+
+Colonel Gotch came on the communicator. "Pickering's in orbit," he said
+briefly. "No details yet."
+
+Crag sighed in relief. Somehow Pickering's success augured well for
+their own attempt. He gave a last check of the communication gear. The
+main speaker was set just above the instrument panel, between him and
+Prochaska. In addition, both he and the Chief--the title he had
+conferred on Prochaska as his special assistant--were supplied with
+insert earphones and lip microphones for use during high noise
+spectrums, or when privacy was desired. Crag, as Commander, could limit
+all communications to his own personal headgear by merely flipping a
+switch. Gotch had been the architect of that one. He was a man who liked
+private lines.
+
+"Five minutes to zero, Commander."
+
+Commander! Crag liked that. He struggled against his harnessing to
+glance back over his shoulder. Nagel's body, scrunched deep into his
+bucket seat, seemed pitifully thin under the heavy harnessing. His face
+was bloodless, taut. Crag momentarily wondered what strange course of
+events had brought him to the rocket. He didn't look like Crag's picture
+of a spaceman. Not at all. But then, none of them looked like supermen.
+Still, courage wasn't a matter of looks, he told himself. It was a
+matter of action.
+
+He swiveled his head around farther. Larkwell reclined next to Nagel
+with eyes closed. Only the fast rise and fall of his chest told of his
+inner tensions--that and the hawk-like grip of his fingers around the
+arm rests. Worried, Crag thought. But we're all worried. He cast a
+sidelong glance at Prochaska. The man's face held enormous calm. He
+reached over and picked up the console mike, then sat for what seemed an
+eternity before the countdown reached minus one minute. He plugged in
+his ear-insert microphone.
+
+"Thirty seconds...." The voice over the speaker boomed. Prochaska
+suddenly became busy checking his instruments. Jittery despite his
+seeming calm, Crag thought.
+
+"Twenty seconds...." He caught himself checking his controls, as if he
+could gain some last moment's knowledge from the banks of levers and
+dials and knobs.
+
+"Ten ... nine ... eight...." He experimentally pulled at his harnessing,
+feeling somewhat hypnotized by the magic of the numbers coming over the
+communicator.
+
+"Three ... two...."
+
+Crag said, "Ready on one."
+
+He punched a button. A muted roar drifted up from the stem. He listened
+for a moment. Satisfied, he moved the cut-in switch. The roar increased,
+becoming almost deafening in the cabin despite its soundproofing. He
+tested the radio and steering rockets and gave a last sidelong glance at
+Prochaska. The Chief winked. The act made him feel better. I should be
+nervous, he thought, or just plain damned scared. But things were
+happening too fast. He adjusted his lip mike and reached for the
+controls, studying his hand as he did so. Still steady. He stirred the
+controls a bit and the roar became hellish. He chewed his lip and took a
+deep breath, exhaling slowly.
+
+He said, "Off to the moon."
+
+Prochaska nodded. Crag moved the controls. The cabin seemed to bob,
+wobble, vibrate. A high hum came from somewhere. He glanced downward
+through the side port. The Aztec seemed to be hanging in mid-air just
+above the desert floor. Off to one side he could see the concrete
+controls dugout. The tiny figures had vanished.
+
+He thought: _Gotch is sweating it out now_. In the past rockets had
+burned on the pad ... blown up in mid-air ... plunged off course and had
+to be destroyed. The idea brought his head up with a snap. Was there a
+safety officer down there with a finger on a button ... prepared to
+destroy the Aztec if it wavered in flight?
+
+He cut the thought off and moved the main power switch, bringing the
+control full over. The ship bucked, and the desert dropped away with a
+suddenness that brought a siege of nausea. He tightened his stomach
+muscles like the space medicine doctors had instructed.
+
+The first moment was bad. There was unbelievable thunder, a fraction of
+a second when his brain seemed to blank, a quick surge of fear. Up ...
+up. The Aztec's rate of acceleration climbed sharply. At a prescribed
+point in time the nose of the rocket moved slightly toward the east. It
+climbed at an impossibly steep slant, rushing up from the earth. Crag
+swept his eyes over the banks of instruments, noted the positions of the
+controls, tried to follow what the faint voice in his earphone was
+telling him. Dials with wavering needles ... knobs with blurry
+numerals ... a cacophony of noise, light and movement--all this and
+more was crowded into seconds.
+
+The rocket hurtled upward, driven by the tidal kinetic energy generated
+by the combustion of high velocity exhaust, born in an inferno of
+thousands of degrees. Behind him giant thrust chambers hungrily consumed
+the volatile fuel, spewing the high-pressure gases forth at more than
+nine thousand miles per hour. The crushing increased, driving him
+against the back of his seat. His heart began laboring ... became a
+sledge hammer inside his chest wall.
+
+He lost all sense of motion. Only the almost unendurable weight crushing
+his body downward mattered. He managed a glimpse of the desert through
+the side port. It lay far below, its salient details erased. The roar of
+the giant motors became muted. There was a singing in his ears, a high
+whine he didn't like.
+
+The Aztec began to tilt, falling off to the right.
+
+He cast a quick glance at the engine instruments. A red light blinked.
+Number three was delivering slightly less thrust than the others.
+Somewhere in the complex of machinery a mechanical sensing device
+reacted. Engines one and two were throttled back and the rocket
+straightened. A second device shifted the mix on engine three, bringing
+thrust into balance. All three engines resumed full power.
+
+"Twenty-five thousand feet," Prochaska chattered. His voice was tinny
+over the small insert earphone provided for communications, especially
+for those first few hellish moments when the whole universe seemed
+collapsed into one huge noise spectrum. Noise and pressure.
+
+"Forty-five thousand...."
+
+They were moving up fast now--three g, four g, five g. Crag's body
+weight was equal to 680 pounds. The dense reaches of the
+troposphere--the weather belt where storms are born--dropped below them.
+They hurtled through the rarefied, bitterly cold and utterly calm
+stratosphere.
+
+"Eighty thousand feet...."
+
+Crag struggled to move his body. His hand was leaden on the controls, as
+if all life had been choked from it. A hot metal ball filled his chest.
+He couldn't breathe. Panic ... until he remembered to breathe at the top
+of his lungs.
+
+At eighteen miles a gale of wind drove west. Rudders on the Aztec
+compensated, she leaned slightly into the blast, negating its drift. The
+winds ceased ... rudders shifted ... the rocket slanted skyward.
+Faster ... faster.
+
+Prochaska called off altitudes almost continuously, the chattering gone
+from his voice. Crag was still struggling against the pinning weight
+when it decreased, vanished. The firestream from the tail pipe gave a
+burst of smoke and died. _Brennschluss_--burnout.
+
+The Aztec hurtled toward the cosmic-ray laden ionosphere, driven only by
+the inertial forces generated in the now silent thrust chambers. The
+hard components of cosmic rays--fast mesons, high energy protons and
+neutrons--would rip through the ship. _If dogs and monkeys can take it,
+so can man._ That's what Gotch had said. He hoped Gotch was right.
+Somewhere, now, the first stage would fall away. It would follow them,
+at ever greater distances, until finally its trajectory would send it
+plunging homeward.
+
+"Cut in." Prochaska's voice was a loud boom in the silence. A strident
+voice from the communicator was trying to tell them they were right on
+the button. Crag moved a second switch. The resultant acceleration drove
+him against the back of his seat, violently expelling the air from his
+lungs. He fought against the increasing gravities, conscious of pressure
+and noise in his ears; pressure and noise mixed with fragments of voice.
+His lips pulled tight against his teeth. The thudding was his heart. He
+tightened his stomach muscles, trying to ease the weight on his chest. A
+mighty hand was gripped around his lungs, squeezing out the air. But it
+wasn't as bad as the first time. They were piercing the thermosphere
+where the outside temperature gradient would zoom upward toward the
+2,000 degree mark.
+
+Prochaska spoke matter-of-factly into his lip mike, "Fifty miles."
+
+Crag marveled at his control ... his calm. No, he didn't have to worry
+about the Chief. The little runt had it. Crag tried to grin. The effort
+was a pain.
+
+The Aztec gave a lurch, altering the direction of forces on their bodies
+again as a servo control kicked the ship into the long shallow spiral of
+escape. It moved upward and more easterly, its nose slanted toward the
+stars, seeking its new course. Crag became momentarily dizzy. His vision
+blurred ... the instrument panel became a kaleidoscope of dancing,
+merging patterns. Then it was past, all except the three g force nailing
+him to the seat.
+
+He spoke into the communicator. "How we doing?"
+
+"Fine, Commander, just fine," Gotch rasped. "The toughest part's over."
+
+Over like hell, Crag thought. A one-way rocket to the moon and he tells
+me the toughest part's over. Lord, I should work in a drugstore!
+
+"Seventy-five miles and two hundred miles east," the Chief intoned. Crag
+made a visual instrument check. Everything looked okay. No red lights.
+Just greens. Wonderful greens that meant everything was hunky-dory. He
+liked green. He wanted to see how Larkwell and Nagel were making out but
+couldn't turn his head. It's rougher on them, he thought. They can't see
+the instruments, can't hear the small voice from Alpine. They just have
+to sit and take it. Sit and feel the unearthly pressures and weights and
+hope everything's okay.
+
+"Ninety-six miles ... speed 3.1 miles per second," Prochaska chanted a
+short while later.
+
+It's as easy as that, Crag thought. Years and years of planning and
+training; then you just step in and go. Not that they were there yet. He
+remembered the rockets that had burned ... exploded ... the drifting
+hulks that still orbited around the earth. No, it wasn't over yet. Not
+by a long shot.
+
+The quiet came again. The earth, seen through the side port, seemed
+tremendously far away. It was a study in greens and yellow-browns and
+whitish ragged areas where the eye was blocked by cloud formations.
+Straight out the sky was black, starry. Prochaska reached up and swung
+the glare shield over the forward port. The sun, looked at even
+indirectly, was a blinding orb, intolerable to the unprotected eye.
+Night above ... day below. A sun that blazed without breaking the ebon
+skies. Strange, Crag mused. He had been prepared for this, prepared by
+long hours of instruction. But now, confronted with a day that was
+night, he could only wonder. For a moment he felt small, insignificant,
+and wondered at brazen man. Who dared come here? I dared, he thought. A
+feeling of pride grew within him. I dared. The stars are mine.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Stage three was easy by comparison. It began with the muted roar of
+thrust chambers almost behind them, a noise spectrum almost solely
+confined to the interior of the rocket. Outside there was no longer
+sufficient air molecules to convey even a whisper of sound. Nor was
+there a pressure build-up. The stage three engine was designed for
+extremely low thrust extended over a correspondingly longer time. It
+would drive them through the escape spiral--an orbital path around the
+earth during which time they would slowly increase both altitude and
+speed.
+
+Crag's body felt light; not total weightlessness, but extremely light.
+His instruments told him they were breaching the exosphere, where
+molecular matter had almost ceased to exist. The atoms of the exosphere
+were lonely, uncrowded, isolated particles. It was the top of the air
+ocean where, heretofore, only monkeys, dogs and smaller test animals had
+gone. It was the realm of Sputniks ... Explorers ... Vanguards--all the
+test rockets which had made the Aztec possible. They still sped their
+silent orbits, borne on the space tides of velocity; eternal tombs of
+dogs and monkeys. And after monkey--man.
+
+The communicator gave a burp. A voice came through the static. Drone
+Able was aloft. It had blasted off from its blasting pad at Burning
+Sands just moments after the Aztec. Prochaska bent over the radarscope
+and fiddled with some knobs. The tube glowed and dimmed, then it was
+there--a tiny pip.
+
+Alpine came in with more data. They watched its course. Somewhere far
+below them and hundreds of miles to the west human minds were guiding
+the drone by telemeter control, vectoring it through space to meet the
+Aztec. It was, Crag thought, applied mathematics. He marveled at the
+science which enabled them to do it. One moment the drone was just a pip
+on the scope, climbing up from the sere earth, riding a firestream to
+the skies; the next it was tons of metal scorching through space,
+cutting into their flight path--a giant screaming up from its cradle.
+
+It was Prochaska's turn to sweat. The job of taking it over was his. He
+bent over his instruments, ears tuned to the communicator fingers
+nervous on the drone controls. The drone hurtled toward them at a
+frightening speed.
+
+Crag kept his fingers on the steering controls just in case, his mind
+following the Chief's hands. They began moving more certainly. Prochaska
+tossed his head impatiently, bending lower over the instrument console.
+Crag strained against his harnessing to see out of the side port. The
+drone was visible now, a silver shaft growing larger with appalling
+rapidity. A thin skein of vapor trailed from its trail, fluffing into
+nothingness.
+
+_If angle of closure remains constant, you're on collision course._ The
+words from the Flying Safety Manual popped into his mind. He studied the
+drone.
+
+Angle of closure was constant!
+
+Crag hesitated. Even a touch on the steering rockets could be bad. Very
+bad. The slightest change in course at their present speed would impose
+tremendous g forces on their bodies, perhaps greater than they could
+stand. He looked at the Chief and licked his lips. The man was intent on
+his instruments, seemingly lost to the world. His fingers had ceased all
+random movement. Every motion had precise meaning. He was hooked onto
+Drone Able's steering rockets now, manipulating the controls with
+extreme precision. He was a concert pianist playing the strident music
+of space, an overture written in metal and flaming gas. Tiny corrections
+occurred in the Drone's flight path.
+
+"Got her lined up," Prochaska announced without moving his eyes from the
+scope. He gradually narrowed the distance between the rockets until they
+were hurtling through space on parallel courses scant miles apart. He
+gave a final check and looked at Crag. They simultaneously emitted big
+sighs.
+
+"Had me worried for a moment," Crag confessed.
+
+"Me, too." The Chief looked out of the side port "Man, it looks like a
+battle wagon."
+
+Crag squinted through the port. Drone Able was a silver bullet in space,
+a twin of the Aztec except in color. A drone with view ports. He smiled
+thoughtfully. Every exterior of the drone had been planned to make it
+appear like a manned vehicle. Gotch was the architect of that bit of
+deception, he thought. The Colonel hadn't missed a bet.
+
+He looked at the earth. It was a behemoth in space; a huge curved
+surface falling away in all directions; a mosaic of grays punctuated by
+swaths of blue-green tints and splotches of white where fleecy clouds
+rode the top of the troposphere. His momentary elation vanished,
+replaced by an odd depression. The world was far away, retreating into
+the cosmic mists. The aftermath, he thought. A chill presentiment crept
+into his mind--a premonition of impending disaster.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+The communicator came to life with data on Pickering. The satelloid was
+moving higher, faster than the Aztec, riding the rim of the exosphere
+where the atmosphere is indistinguishable from absolute space. Crag felt
+thankful he hadn't been tabbed for the job. The satelloid was a fragile
+thing compared to the Aztec--a moth compared to a hawk. It was a
+relative handful of light metals and delicate electronic components, yet
+it moved at frightful speeds over the course the armchair astronauts had
+dubbed "Sputnik Avenue." It was a piloted vehicle, a mite with small
+stubby wings to enable it to glide through the air ocean to safe
+sanctuary after orbiting the earth. Pickering would be crouched in its
+scant belly, a space hardly larger than his body, cramped in a pressure
+suit that made movement all but impossible. His smallest misjudgment
+would spell instant death. Crag marveled at Pickering's audacity.
+Clearly he had the roughest mission. While he thought about it, he kept
+one part of his mind centered on the communicator absorbing the data on
+the satelloid's position and speed.
+
+The Northern tip of Africa came up fast. The Dark Continent of history
+seen from the borders of space was a yellow-green splotch hemmed by
+blue. The satelloid was still beyond the Aztec's radar range but a data
+link analog painted in the relationship between the two space vehicles.
+The instrument's automatic grid measured the distance between them in
+hundreds of miles. Pickering, aloft before them, had fled into the east
+and already was beginning to overtake them from the west. The ships were
+seen on the analog as two pips, two mites aloft in the air ocean. Crag
+marveled at the satelloid's tremendous speed. It was a ray of metal
+flashing along the fringes of space, a rapier coming out of the west.
+
+The Middle East passed under them, receding, a mass of yellow-green and
+occasional smoke-blue splotches. The earth was a giant curvature, not
+yet an orb, passing into the shadow of night. It was a night of
+fantastic shortness, broken by daylight over the Pacific. The ocean was
+an incredible blue, blue-black he decided. The harsh sound of the
+communicator came to life. Someone wanted a confab with Crag. A private
+confab. Prochaska wrinkled his brow questioningly. Crag switched to his
+ear insert phone and acknowledged.
+
+"A moment," a voice said. He waited.
+
+"Commander, we've bad news for you." It was Gotch's voice, a rasp coming
+over a great distance.
+
+"The S-two reports a rocket being tracked by radar. ComSoPac's picked it
+up. It's on intercept course."
+
+Crag's thoughts raced. The S-two was the satelloid's code name. "Any
+idea what kind?"
+
+"Probably a sub-launched missile--riding a beam right to you. Or the
+drone," he added. He was silent for a second. "Well, we sort of expected
+this might happen, Commander. It's a tough complication."
+
+A helluva lot of good that does, Crag thought. What next? Another set of
+pilots, more indoctrination, new rockets, another zero hour. Gotch would
+win the moon if he had to use the whole Air Force. He said, "Well, it's
+been a nice trip, so far."
+
+"Get Prochaska on the scope."
+
+"He's on and ... hold it." The Chief was making motions toward the
+scope. "No, it's the satelloid. He's--"
+
+Gotch broke in with more data. Then it was there.
+
+"He's got it," Crag announced. Gotch was silent. He watched the analog.
+All three pips were visible. The satelloid was still above them, rushing
+in, fast. The interceptor was lower to the northwest, cutting into their
+path. He thought it was the Drone Able story all over again. Only this
+time it wasn't a supply rocket. It was a warhead, a situation they
+couldn't control.
+
+_Couldn't control? Or could they?_ He debated the question, then quickly
+briefed Prochaska and cut him in on the com circuit.
+
+"We can use Drone Able as an intercept," he told Gotch.
+
+"No!" The word came explosively.
+
+Crag snapped, "Drone Able won't be a damn bit of good without the
+Aztec."
+
+"No, this is ground control, Commander." Gotch abruptly cut off. Crag
+cursed.
+
+"Calling Step One.... Calling Step One. S-two calling Step One. Are you
+receiving? Over." The voice came faint over the communicator, rising and
+falling.
+
+"Step One," Crag said, adjusting his lip mike. He acknowledged the code
+call while his mind registered the fact it wasn't Alpine Base. There was
+a burst of static. He waited a moment, puzzled.
+
+"S-two calling...."
+
+Pickering! He had been slow in recognizing the satelloid's code call.
+The voice faded--was lost. His thought raced. Pickering was up there in
+the satelloid moving higher, faster than the Aztec, hurtling along the
+rim of space in a great circle around the earth. The stubby-winged
+rocket ship was a minute particle in infinity, yet it represented a part
+in the great adventure. It was the hand of Michael Gotch reaching toward
+them. For the instant, the knowledge gave him a ray of hope--hope as
+quickly dashed. The S-two was just a high-speed observation and relay
+platform; a manned vehicle traveling the communication orbit established
+by the Army's earlier Explorer missiles. He turned back to Prochaska and
+sketched in his plan of using Drone Able as an intercept.
+
+"Could be." The Chief bit his lip reflectively. "We could control her
+through her steering rockets, but we'd have to be plenty sharp. We'd
+only get one crack."
+
+"Chances are the intercept is working on a proximity fuse," Crag
+reasoned. "All we'd have to do is work the drone into its flight path.
+We could use our own steering rockets to give us a bigger margin of
+safety."
+
+"What would the loss of Able mean?"
+
+Crag shrugged. "I'm more concerned with what the loss of the Aztec would
+mean."
+
+"Might work." The Chief looked sharply at him. "What does Alpine say?"
+
+"They say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was much
+nearer. So was the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for an
+eye-witness report, he thought sourly. Probably got an automatic camera
+so Gotch can watch the show. He looked quizzically at Prochaska. The
+Chief wore a frozen mask. He got back on the communicator and repeated
+his request. When he finished, there was a dead silence in the void.
+
+The Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully at
+Prochaska. Last time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited to
+leave the Air Force. But Gotch had taken him despite that. He glanced
+over his shoulder trying to formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back in
+his seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog, he thought. He doesn't know what he's
+in for. He twisted his head further. Nagel watched him with a narrow
+look. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind and turned back to the
+analog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across the grid.
+The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid was
+dropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too. Much nearer. Prochaska
+watched the scene on his radarscope.
+
+"She's coming fast," he murmured. His face had paled.
+
+"Too fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine.
+Gotch came on immediately.
+
+Crag said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept.
+It's the only chance."
+
+"Commander, I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy,
+biting.
+
+"Ground has no control over this situation," Crag snapped angrily.
+
+"I said ground control, Commander. That's final."
+
+"I'm using Drone Able."
+
+"Commander Crag, you'll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Gotch
+raged. "Don't move that Drone."
+
+For a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just now he'd like to
+be guaranteed the chance to clear the heads at Alpine Base. It sounded
+good--real good. There was another burst of static. Pickering's voice
+came in--louder, clearer, a snap through the ether.
+
+"Don't sacrifice the drone, Commander!"
+
+"Do you know a better way?"
+
+Pickering's voice dropped to a laconic drawl.
+
+"Reckon so."
+
+Crag glanced at the analog and gave a visible start. The satelloid was
+lower, moving in faster along a course which would take it obliquely
+through the space path being traversed by the Aztec. If there was such a
+thing as a wake in space, that's where the satelloid would chop through,
+cutting down toward the intercept. He's using his power, he thought, the
+scant amount of fuel he would need for landing. But if he used it up....
+
+He slashed the thought off and swung to the communicator.
+
+"Step One to S-two ... Step One to S-two ..."
+
+"S-two." Pickering came in immediately.
+
+Crag barked, "You can't--"
+
+"That's my job," Pickering cut in. "You gotta get that bucket to the
+moon." Crag looked thoughtfully at the communicator.
+
+"Okay," he said finally. "Thanks, fellow."
+
+"Don't mention it. The Air Force is always ready to serve," Pickering
+said. "Adios." He cut off.
+
+Crag stared at the analog, biting his lip, feeling the emotion surge
+inside him. It grew to a tumult.
+
+"Skipper!" Prochaska's voice was startled. "For God's sake ... look!"
+
+Crag swung his eyes to the scope. The blip representing Pickering had
+cut their flight path, slicing obliquely through their wake. At its
+tremendous speed only the almost total absence of air molecules kept the
+satelloid from turning into a blazing torch. Down ... down ... plunging
+to meet the death roaring up from the Pacific. They followed it
+silently. A brief flare showed on the scope. They looked at the screen
+for a long moment.
+
+"He was a brave man," Prochaska said simply.
+
+"A pile of guts." Crag got on the communicator. Gotch listened. When he
+had finished, Gotch said:
+
+"After this, Commander, follow ground orders. You damned near fouled up
+the works. I don't want to see that happen again."
+
+"Yes, Sir, but I couldn't have expected that move."
+
+"What do you think Pickering was up there for?" Gotch asked softly. "He
+knew what he was doing. That was his job. Just like the couple that got
+bumped at the Blue Door. It's tough, Commander, but some people have to
+die. A lot have, already, and there'll be a lot more."
+
+He added brusquely, "You'll get your chance." The communicator was
+silent for a moment. "Well, carry on."
+
+"Aye, aye, Sir," Crag said. He glanced over his shoulder.
+
+Larkwell was leaning over in his seat, twisting his body to see out the
+side port. His face was filled with the wonder of space. Nagel didn't
+stir. His eyes were big saucers in his white, thin face. Crag half
+expected to see his lips quiver, and wondered briefly at the courage it
+must have taken for him to volunteer. He didn't seem at all like the
+hero type. Still, look at Napoleon. You could never tell what a man had
+until the chips were down. Well, the chips _were_ down. Nagel better
+have it. He turned reflectively back to the forward port thinking that
+the next two days would be humdrum. Nothing would ever seem tough again.
+Not after what they had just been through.
+
+Prochaska fell into the routine of calling out altitude and speed. Crag
+listened with one part of his mind occupied with Pickering's sacrifice.
+Would he have had the courage to drive the satelloid into the warhead?
+Did it take more guts to do that than to double for a man slated to be
+murdered? He mulled the questions. Plainly, Step One was jammed with
+heroes.
+
+"Altitude, 1,000 miles, speed, 22,300." Prochaska whispered the words,
+awe in his voice. They looked at each other wordlessly.
+
+"We've made it," Crag exulted. "We're on that old moon trajectory." The
+Chiefs face reflected his wonder. Crag studied his instruments. Speed
+slightly over 22,300 miles per hour. The radar altimeter showed the
+Aztec slightly more than one thousand miles above the earth's surface.
+He hesitated, then cut off the third stage engine. The fuel gauge
+indicated a bare few gallons left. This small amount, he knew,
+represented error in the precise computations of escape. Well, the extra
+weight was negligible. At the same time, they couldn't afford added
+acceleration. He became aware that the last vestige of weight had
+vanished. He moved his hand. No effort. No effort at all. Space, he
+thought, the first successful manned space ship.
+
+Elation swept him. He, Adam Crag, was in space. Not just the top of the
+atmosphere but absolute space--the big vacuum that surrounded the world.
+This had been the aim ... the dream ... the goal. And so quick!
+
+He flicked his mind back. It seemed almost no time at all since the
+Germans had electrified the world with the V-2, a primitive rocket that
+scarcely reached seventy miles above the earth, creeping at a mere 3,000
+miles per hour.
+
+The Americans had strapped a second stage to the German prototype,
+creating the two-stage V-2-Wac Corporal and sending it 250 miles into
+the tall blue at speeds better than 5,000 miles per hour. It had been a
+battle even then, he thought, remembering the dark day the Russians beat
+the West with Sputnik I ... seemingly demolished it with Sputnik
+II--until the U. S. Army came through with Explorer I. That had been the
+real beginning. IRBM's and ICBM's had been born. Missiles and
+counter-missiles. Dogs, monkeys and mice had ridden the fringes of
+space. But never man.
+
+A deep sense of satisfaction flooded him. The Aztec had been the first.
+The Aztec under Commander Adam Crag. The full sense of the
+accomplishment was just beginning to strike him. We've beaten the enemy,
+he thought. We've won. It had been a grim battle waged on a
+technological front; a battle between nations in which, ironically, each
+victory by either side took mankind a step nearer emancipation from the
+world. Man could look forward now, to a bright shiny path leading to the
+stars. This was the final step. The Big Step. The step that would tie
+together two worlds. In a few short days the Aztec would reach her
+lonely destination, Arzachel, a bleak spot in the universe. Adam Crag,
+the Man in the Moon. He hoped. He turned toward the others, trying to
+wipe the smug look from his face.
+
+The oddity of weightlessness was totally unlike anything he had expected
+despite the fact its symptoms had been carefully explained during the
+indoctrination program. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, yet he
+wasn't. He felt no sense of pressure against the seat, or against
+anything else, for that matter. It was, he thought, like sitting on air,
+as light as a mote of dust drifting in a breeze. Sure, he'd experienced
+weightlessness before, when pushing a research stratojet through a
+high-speed trajectory to counter the pull of gravity, for example. But
+those occasions had lasted only brief moments. He moved his hand
+experimentally upward--a move that ended like the strike of a snake.
+Yeah, it was going to take some doing to learn control of his movements.
+He looked at Prochaska. The Chief was feeding data to Alpine Base. He
+finished and grinned broadly at Crag. His eyes were elated.
+
+"Sort of startling, isn't it?"
+
+"Amen," Crag agreed. "I'm almost afraid to loosen my harnessing.
+
+"Alpine says we're right on the button--schedule, course and speed.
+There's a gal operator on now."
+
+"That's good. That means we're back to routine." Crag loosened his
+harnesses and twisted around in his seat. Larkwell was moving his hands
+experimentally. He saw Crag and grinned foolishly. Nagel looked ill. His
+face was pinched, bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed. He caught Crag's look
+and nodded, without expression.
+
+"Pretty rough," Crag said sympathetically. His voice, in the new-born
+silence, possessed a curious muffled effect. "We're past the worst."
+
+Nagel's lips twisted derisively. "Yeah?"
+
+The querulous tone grated Crag and he turned back to the controls.
+_Every minor irritant will assume major proportions._ That's what Doc
+Weldon had warned. Well, damnit, he wouldn't let Nagel get him down.
+Besides, what was his gripe? They were all in the same boat. He turned
+to the instrument console, checking the myriad of dials, gauges and
+scopes. Everything seemed normal, if there was such a thing as normalcy
+in space. He said reflectively, speaking to no one in particular:
+
+"Maybe I should have been more truthful with the Colonel before taking
+on this damned job of moon pilot. There's something I didn't tell him."
+
+"What?" Prochaska's face was startled.
+
+"I've never been to the moon before."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+"Alpine wants a private confab," Prochaska said. His voice was ominous.
+"Probably another stinker."
+
+"Again?" Crag plugged in his ear insert microphone thinking he wasn't
+going to like what he'd hear. Just when things had started looking
+smooth too. He cut Prochaska out of the system and acknowledged.
+
+"Crag?" Gotch's voice was brittle, hard. He looked sideways at
+Prochaska, who was studiously examining one of the instruments, trying
+to give him the privacy demanded. He shifted his head. Larkwell was
+standing at the side port with his back toward him. Nagel lay back in
+his seat, eyes closed.
+
+Crag answered softly. "Shoot."
+
+"More bad news," Gotch reported somberly. "Burning Sands picked a
+package out of Drone Able just before launch time. It's just been
+identified."
+
+"Check," he replied, trying to assimilate what Gotch was telling him.
+
+Gotch stated flatly. "It was a time bomb. Here's a description. Bomb was
+packaged in a flat black plastic case about one by four inches. Probably
+not big enough to wreck the drone but big enough to destroy the
+controls. It was found tucked in the wiring of the main panel. Got
+that?"
+
+"Check."
+
+"The bomb squad hasn't come through with full details yet. If you find a
+mate, don't try to disarm it. Dump it, pronto!"
+
+"Can't. It'll stay with us."
+
+"It's size indicates it wouldn't be fatal if it exploded outside the
+hull," Gotch rasped. "It was designed to wreck controls. If you find
+one, dump it. That's an order." The earphones were silent. Crag was
+swiveling toward Prochaska when they came to life again.
+
+"One other thing." Gotch was silent for a moment. Crag pictured him
+carefully framing his words. "It means that the situation is worse than
+we thought," he said finally.
+
+"They haven't left anything to chance. If you have a bomb, it was
+carried there after the final security check. Do you follow me?"
+
+"Yeah," Crag answered thoughtfully. He sat for a moment, debating what
+to do. Prochaska didn't ask any questions. Gotch was telling him that
+the Aztec might be mined. Wait, what else had he said? _The bomb was
+carried there after the security check._ That spelled traitor. The Aztec
+had been shaken down too often and too thoroughly for Intelligence to
+have muffed. It would have to have been planted at the last moment. If
+there was a bomb, he'd better keep quiet until Gotch's suspicions were
+proven false--or verified.
+
+He turned toward Prochaska, keeping his voice low. "Search the console
+panels--every inch of them."
+
+He looked around. Nagel and Larkwell were back in their seats. Nagel
+seemed asleep, but Larkwell's face was speculative. Crag's eyes swept
+the cabin. Spare oxygen tanks, packaged pressure suits, water vents,
+chemical commode, the algae chamber and spare chemicals to absorb carbon
+dioxide in case the algae system failed--these and more items filled
+every wall, cupboard, occupied every cubic inch of space beyond the bare
+room needed for human movement. Where was the most sensitive spot? The
+controls. He sighed and turned back to the panels.
+
+Prochaska was methodically running his hands through the complex of
+wiring under the instrument panels. His face was a question, the face of
+a man who didn't know what he was looking for. He decided not to tell
+him ... yet. His earphones gave a burst of static followed by the
+Colonel's hurried voice.
+
+"Burning Sands reports packaged timed for 0815," he snapped. "That's
+eight minutes away. Get on the ball. If you've got one there, it's
+probably a twin."
+
+"Okay," Crag acknowledged. "Adios, we've got work to do." He swung
+toward Nagel.
+
+"Break out the pressure suits," he barked. "Lend him a hand, Larkwell."
+
+Nagel's eyes opened. "Pressure suits?"
+
+"Check. We may need them in a couple of minutes."
+
+"But--"
+
+"Get to it," Crag rasped. "It may be a matter of life or death." He
+turned. Prochaska was still examining the wiring. No time to search the
+rest of the cabin, he thought. It might be anywhere. It would have to be
+the panels or nothing. Besides, that was the most logical place. He went
+to the Chief's assistance, searching the panels on his side of the
+board, pushing his fingers gently between the maze of wiring. Nothing
+below the analog, the engine instruments, the radar altimeter. He
+glanced at the chronometer and began to sweat. The hands on the dial
+seemed to be racing. Prochaska finished his side of the console and
+looked sideways at him. Better tell him, Crag thought.
+
+He said calmly, "Time bomb. Burning Sands says, if we have one, it may
+blow in--" he glanced hurriedly at the chronometer--"five minutes."
+
+Prochaska looked hurriedly at the array of gear lining the bulkheads.
+
+"Probably in the controls, if we have one." Crag finished the panels on
+his side without any luck. Prochaska hastily started re-examining the
+wiring. Crag followed after him. A moment later his fingers found it, a
+smooth flat case deeply imbedded between the wiring. Prochaska had gone
+over that panel a moment before! The thought struck him even as he moved
+it out, handling it gingerly. Prochaska showed his surprise. Crag
+glanced at Nagel and Larkwell. They had the suits free. He laid the
+bomb on the console. Larkwell saw it. His face showed understanding. He
+heaved one of the suits to Prochaska and a second one to Crag. They
+hurriedly donned them. Space limitations made it an awkward task. Crag
+kept his eyes on the chronometer. The hand seemed to whiz across the
+dial. He began to sweat, conscious that he was breathing heavily.
+
+"Short exposure," he rapped out. "Minimum pressure." He slipped on his
+helmet, secured it to the neck ring and snapped on the face plate. He
+turned the oxygen valve and felt the pressure build up within the suit
+and helmet. The chronometer showed two minutes to go. He snapped a
+glance around. Nagel peered at him through his thick face plate with a
+worried expression. Larkwell's lips were compressed against his teeth.
+His jaws worked spasmodically. Both were waiting, tense, watching him.
+
+Prochaska was the last to finish. Crag waited impatiently for him to
+switch on his oxygen valve before picking up the bomb. He motioned the
+others to stand back and began opening the dogs which secured the escape
+hatch. He hesitated on the last one. The escaping air could whisk him
+into space in a flash. The same thing had happened to crewmen riding in
+bubbles that broke at high altitude. Whoosh! He'd be gone! Conceivably,
+it could suck the cabin clean. Fortunately their gear had been secured
+as protection against the high g forces of escape. Too late to lash
+himself with the seat harnessing. Time was running out. Panic touched
+his mind. Calm down, Crag, he told himself. Play it cool, boy.
+
+Prochaska saw his dilemma at the same instant. He squatted on the deck
+and thrust his legs straight out from the hips, straddling one of the
+seat supports. Larkwell and Nagel hurriedly followed suit. Crag cast a
+backward glance at the chronometer--a minute and ten seconds to go! He
+threw himself to one side of the hatch, squatted and hooked an arm into
+a panel console, hoping it was strong enough. He laid the bomb on the
+deck next to the hatch and reached up with his free hand, held his
+breath, hesitated, and jarred the last dog loose.
+
+The hatch exploded open. A giant claw seemed to grab his body, pulling
+him toward the opening. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving him
+weak, breathless. The bomb had been whisked into space. He got to his
+feet and grasped the hatch combing, looking out. It was a giddy,
+vertiginous moment. Before him yawned a great purple-black maw, a
+blacker purple than that seen through the view ports. It was studded
+with unbelievably brilliant stars agleam with the hard luster of
+diamonds--white diamonds and blue sapphires.
+
+_Something bright blinked in space._
+
+He hesitated. The cold was already coming through his suit. He
+remembered he hadn't turned on either the heating element or interphone
+system. He drew the hatch shut and dogged it down, then switched both
+on. The others saw his movements and followed suit.
+
+"See anything?" Prochaska was the first to ask. His voice sounded tinny
+and far away. Crag adjusted his amplifier and said grimly:
+
+"It blew."
+
+"How ... how did it get here?" He identified the voice as Nagel's.
+
+He snapped brusquely, "That's what I'm going to find out." Larkwell was
+silent. Nagel began fiddling with the oxygen valves. They waited,
+quietly, each absorbed in his thoughts until Nagel indicated it was safe
+to remove their suits. Crag's thoughts raced while he shucked the heavy
+garments. It's past, he thought, but the saboteur's still here. Who? He
+flicked his eyes over the men. Who? That's what he had to find
+out--soon! When the suit was off, he hurriedly put through a call to
+Gotch, reporting what had happened.
+
+The Colonel listened without comment. When Crag finished, he was silent
+for a moment. Finally he replied:
+
+"Here's where we stand. We will immediately comb the record of every
+intelligence agent involved in the last shakedown. We'll also recomb the
+records of the Aztec crew, including yours. I've got to tell you this
+because it's serious. If there's a saboteur aboard--and I think there
+is--then the whole operation's in jeopardy. It'll be up to you to keep
+your eyes open and analyze your men. We've tried to be careful. We've
+checked everyone involved back to birth. But there's always the sleeper.
+It's happened before."
+
+"Check," Crag said. "I only hope you don't catch up with all my early
+peccadillos."
+
+"This is no time to be funny. Now, some more news for you. Washington
+reports that the enemy launched another missile this morning."
+
+"Another one?" Crag sighed softly. This time there would be no
+satelloid, no Pickering to give his life.
+
+The Colonel continued grimly. "Radar indicates this is a different kind
+of rocket. Its rate of climb ... its trajectory ... indicates it's
+manned. Now it's a race."
+
+Crag thought a moment. "Any sign of a drone with it?"
+
+"No, that's the surprising part, if this is a full-scale attempt at
+establishing a moon base. And we believe it is."
+
+Crag asked sharply. "It couldn't be their atom-powered job?" The
+possibility filled him with alarm.
+
+"Positively not. We've got our finger squarely on that one and it's a
+good year from launch-date. No, this is a conventional rocket ...
+perhaps more advanced than we had believed...." His voice dropped off.
+"We'll keep you posted," he added after a minute.
+
+"Roger." Crag sighed. He removed the earphone reflectively. He wouldn't
+tell the others yet. Now that they were in space maybe ... just
+maybe ... he could find time to catch his breath. Damn, they hadn't
+anticipated all this during indoctrination. The intercept-missile ...
+time bomb ... possible traitor in the crew. What more could go wrong?
+For just a second he felt an intense hostility toward Gotch. An Air
+Force full of pilots and he had to pick him--and he wasn't even in the
+Air Force at the time. Lord, he should have contented himself with
+jockeying a jet airliner on some nice quiet hop. Like between L. A. and
+Pearl ... with a girl at each end of the run.
+
+He thought wistfully about the prospect while he made a routine check of
+the instruments. Cabin pressure normal ... temperature 78 degrees F. ...
+nothing alarming in the radiation and meteor impact readings. Carbon
+dioxide content normal. Things might get routine after all, he thought
+moodily. Except for one thing. The new rocket flashing skyward from east
+of the Caspian. One thing he was sure of. It spelled trouble.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+The U. S. Navy's Space Scan Radar Station No. 5 picked up the new rocket
+before it was fairly into space. It clung to it with an electromagnetic
+train, bleeding it of data. The information was fed into computers,
+digested, analyzed and transferred to Alpine Base, and thence
+telemetered to the Aztec where it appeared as a pip on the analog
+display. The grid had automatically adjusted to a 500-mile scale with
+the positions of the intruder and Aztec separated by almost the width of
+the instrument face. The Aztec seemed to have a clear edge in the race
+for the moon. Prochaska became aware of the newcomer but refrained from
+questions, nor did Crag volunteer any information.
+
+Just now he wasn't worrying about the East World rocket. Not at this
+point. With Drone Able riding to starboard, the Aztec was moving at an
+ever slower rate of speed. It would continue to decelerate, slowed by
+the earth's pull as it moved outward, traveling on inertial force since
+the silencing of its engines. By the time it reached the neutral zone
+where the moon and earth gravispheres canceled each other, the Aztec
+would have just enough speed left to coast into the moon's field of
+influence. Then it would accelerate again, picking up speed until slowed
+by its braking rockets. That was the hour that occupied his thoughts--a
+time when he would be called upon for split-second decisions coming in
+waves.
+
+He tried to anticipate every contingency. The mass ratio necessary to
+inject the Aztec into its moon trajectory had precluded fuel beyond the
+absolute minimum needed. The rocket would approach the moon in an
+elliptical path, correct its heading to a north-south line relative to
+the planet and decelerate in a tight spiral. At a precise point in space
+he would have to start using the braking rockets, slow the ship until
+they occupied an exact point in the infinite space-time continuum, then
+let down into cliff-brimmed Arzachel, a bleak, airless, utterly alien
+wasteland with but one virtue: Uranium. That and the fact that it
+represented the gateway to the Solar System.
+
+He mentally reviewed the scene a hundred times. He would do this and
+this and that. He rehearsed each step, each operation, each fleeting
+second in which all the long years of planning would summate in victory
+or disaster. He was the X in the equation in which the Y-scale was
+represented by the radar altimeter. He would juggle speed, deceleration,
+altitude, mass and a dozen other variables, keeping them in delicate
+balance. Nor could he forget for one second the hostile architecture of
+their destination.
+
+For all practical purposes Arzachel was a huge hole sunk in the moon--a
+vast depression undoubtedly broken by rocks, rills, rough lava outcrops.
+The task struck him as similar to trying to land a high-speed jet in a
+well shaft. Well, almost as bad.
+
+He tried to anticipate possible contingencies, formulating his responses
+to each. He was, he thought, like an actor preparing for his first
+night. Only this time there would be no repeat performance. The critics
+were the gods of chance in a strictly one-night stand.
+
+Gotch was the man who had placed him here. But the responsibility was
+all his. Gotch! All he gave a damn about was the moon--a chunk of real
+estate scorned by its Maker. Crag bit his lip ruefully. Stop feeling
+sorry for yourself, boy, he thought. You asked for it--practically
+begged for it. Now you've got it.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+By the end of the second day the novelty of space had worn off. Crag and
+Prochaska routinely checked the myriad of instruments jammed into the
+faces of the consoles: Meteorite impact counters, erosion counters,
+radiation counters--counters of all kinds. Little numbers on dials and
+gauges that told man how he was faring in the wastelands of the
+universe. Nagel kept a special watch on the oxygen pressure gauge.
+Meteorite damage had been one of Gotch's fears. A hole the size of a
+pinhead could mean eventual death through oxygen loss, hence Nagel
+seldom let a half-hour pass without checking the readings.
+
+Crag and Prochaska spelled each other in brief catnaps. Larkwell, with
+no duties to perform, was restless. At first he had passed long hours at
+the viewports, uttering exclamations of surprise and delight from time
+to time. But sight of the ebony sky with its fields of strewn jewels
+had, in the end, tended to make him moody. He spent most of the second
+day dozing.
+
+Nagel kept busy prowling through the oxygen gear, testing connections
+and making minor adjustments. His seeming concern with the equipment
+bothered Crag. The narrow escape with the time bomb had robbed him of
+his confidence in the crew. He told himself the bomb could have been
+planted during the last security shakedown. But a "sleeper" in security
+seemed highly unlikely. So did a "sleeper" in the Aztec. Everyone of
+them, he knew, had been scanned under the finest security microscope
+almost from birth to the moment each had climbed the tall ladder leading
+to the space cabin.
+
+He covertly watched Nagel, wondering if his prowling was a form of
+escape, an effort to forget his fears. He was beginning to understand
+the stark reality of Nagel's terror. It had been mirrored in his face, a
+naked, horrible dread, during the recent emergency. No ... he wasn't the
+saboteur type. Larkwell, maybe. Perhaps Prochaska. But not Nagel. A
+saboteur would have iron nerves, a cold, icy fanaticism that never
+considered danger. But supposing the man were a consummate actor, his
+fear a mask to conceal his purpose?
+
+He debated the pros and cons. In the end he decided it would not be
+politic to forbid Nagel to handle the gear during flight. He was, after
+all, their oxygen equipment specialist. He contented himself with
+keeping a sharp watch on Nagel's activities--a situation Nagel seemed
+unmindful of. He seemed to have lost some of his earlier fear. His face
+was alert, almost cheerful at times; yet it held the attitude of
+watchful waiting.
+
+Despite his liking for Prochaska, Crag couldn't forget that he had
+failed to find the time bomb in a panel he had twice searched. Still,
+the console's complex maze of wiring and tubes had made an excellent
+hiding place. He had to admit he was lucky to have found it himself. He
+tried to push his suspicions from his mind without relaxing his
+vigilance. It was a hard job.
+
+By the third day the enemy missile had become a prime factor in the
+things he found to worry about. The intruder rocket had drawn closer.
+Alpine warned that the race was neck and neck. It had either escaped
+earth at a higher speed or had continued to accelerate beyond the escape
+point. Crag regarded the reason as purely academic. The hard fact was
+that it would eventually overtake the still decelerating Aztec. Just now
+it was a pip on the analog, a pip which before long would loom as large
+as Drone Able, perhaps as close. He tried to assess its meaning, vexed
+that Alpine seemed to be doing so little to help in the matter.
+
+Later Larkwell spotted the pip made by the East's rocket on the scope.
+That let the cat out of the bag as far as Crag was concerned. Soberly he
+informed them of its origin. Larkwell bit his lip thoughtfully. Nagel
+furrowed his brow, seemingly lost in contemplation. Prochaska's
+expression never changed. Crag assessed each reaction. In fairness, he
+also assessed his own feeling toward each of the men. He felt a positive
+dislike of Nagel and a positive liking for Prochaska. Larkwell was a
+neutral. He seemed to be a congenial, open-faced man who wore his
+feelings in plain sight. But there was a quality about him which, try as
+he would, he could not put his finger on.
+
+Nagel, he told himself, must have plenty on the ball. After all, he had
+passed through a tough selection board. Just because the man's
+personality conflicted with his own was no grounds for suspicion. But
+the same reasoning could apply to the others. The fact remained--at
+least Gotch seemed certain--that his crew numbered a ringer among them.
+He was mulling it over when the communicator came to life. The message
+was in moon code.
+
+It came slowly, widely spaced, as if Gotch realized Crag's limitations
+in handling the intricate cipher system evolved especially for this one
+operation. Learning it had caused him many a sleepless night. He copied
+the message letter by letter, his understanding blanked by the effort
+to decipher it. He finished, then quickly read the two scant lines:
+
+"_Blank channel to Alp unless survival need._"
+
+He studied the message for a long moment. Gotch was telling him not to
+contact Alpine Base unless it were a life or death matter. Not that
+everything connected with the operation wasn't a life or death matter,
+he thought grimly. He decided the message was connected with the
+presence of the rocket now riding astern and to one side of the Aztec
+and her drone. He guessed the Moon Code had been used to prevent
+possible pickup by the intruder rather than any secrecy involving his
+own crew.
+
+He quietly passed the information to Prochaska. The Chief listened,
+nodding, his eyes going to the analog.
+
+According to his computations, the enemy rocket--Prochaska had dubbed it
+Bandit--would pass abeam of Drone Able slightly after they entered the
+moon's gravitational field, about 24,000 miles above the planet's
+surface. Then what? He pursed his lips vexedly. Bandit was a factor that
+had to be considered, but just how he didn't know. One thing was
+certain. The East knew about the load of uranium in Crater Arzachel.
+That, then, was the destination of the other rocket. Among the many X
+unknowns he had to solve, a new X had been added; the rocket from behind
+the Iron Curtain. Something told him this would be the biggest X of all.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+If Colonel Michael Gotch were worried, he didn't show it. He puffed
+complacently on his black briar pipe watching and listening to the
+leathery-faced man across from him. His visitor was angular, about
+sixty, with gray-black hair and hard-squinted eyes. A livid scar bit
+deep into his forehead; his mouth was a cold thin slash in his face. He
+wore the uniform of a Major General in the United States Air Force. The
+uniform did not denote the fact that its wearer was M.I.--Military
+Intelligence. His name was Leonard Telford.
+
+"So that's the way it looks," General Telford was saying. "The enemy is
+out to get Arzachel at all costs. Failing that, they'll act to keep us
+from it."
+
+"They wouldn't risk war," Gotch stated calmly.
+
+"No, but neither would we. That's the damnable part of it," the General
+agreed. "The next war spells total annihilation. But for that very
+reason they can engage in sabotage and hostile acts with security of
+knowledge that we won't go to war. Look at them now--the missile attack
+on the Aztec, the time bomb plant, the way they operate their networks
+right in our midst. Pure audacity. Hell, they've even got an agent _en
+route_ to the moon. On our rocket at that."
+
+The Colonel nodded uncomfortably. The presence of a saboteur on the
+Aztec represented a bungle in his department. The General was telling
+him so in a not too gentle way.
+
+"I seem to recall I was in Astrakhan myself a few years back," he
+reminded.
+
+"Oh, sure, we build pretty fair networks ourselves," the General said
+blandly. He looked at Gotch and a rare smile crossed his face. "How did
+you like the dancing girls in Gorik's, over by the shore?"
+
+Gotch looked startled, then grinned. "Didn't know you'd ever been that
+far in, General."
+
+"Uh-huh, same time you were."
+
+"Well, I'll be damned," Gotch breathed softly. There was a note of
+respect in his voice. The General was silent for a moment.
+
+"But the Caspian's hot now."
+
+"Meaning?"
+
+"Warheads--with the name Arzachel writ large across the nose cones." He
+eyed Gotch obliquely. "If we secure Arzachel first, they'll blow it off
+the face of the moon." They looked at each other silently. Outside a jet
+engine roared to life.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The moon filled the sky. It was gigantic, breath-taking, a monstrous
+sphere of cratered rock moving in the eternal silence of space with
+ghostly-radiance, heedless that a minute mote bearing alien life had
+entered its gravitational field. It moved in majesty along its orbit
+some 2,300 miles every hour, alternately approaching to within 222,000
+miles of its Earth Mother, retreating to over 252,000 miles measuring
+its strides by some strange cosmic clock.
+
+The Apennines, a rugged mountain range jutting 20,000 feet above the
+planet's surface, was clearly visible. It rose near the Crater
+Eratosthenes, running northwest some 200 miles to form the southwest
+boundary of Mare Imbrium. The towering Leibnitz and Dorfel Mountains
+were visible near the edge of the disc. South along the terminator, the
+border between night and day, lay Ptolemaeus, Alphons, and Arzachel.
+
+Crag and Prochaska studied its surface, picking out the flat areas which
+early astronomers had mistaken for seas and which still bore the names
+of seas. The giant enclosure Clavius, the lagoon-like Plato and
+ash-strewn Copernicus held their attention. Crag studied the north-south
+line along which Arzachel lay, wondering again if they could seek out
+such a relatively small area in the jumbled, broken, twisted land
+beneath them.
+
+At some 210,000 miles from earth the Aztec had decelerated to a little
+over 300 miles per hour. Shortly after entering the moon's gravisphere
+it began to accelerate again. Crag studied the enemy rocket riding
+astern. It would be almost abreast them in short time, off to one side
+of the silver drone. It, too, was accelerating.
+
+"Going to be nip and tuck," he told Prochaska. The Chief nodded.
+
+"Don't like the looks of that stinker," he grunted.
+
+Crag watched the analog a moment longer before turning to the quartz
+viewport. His eyes filled with wonder. For untold ages lovers had sung
+of the moon, philosophers had pondered its mysteries, astronomers had
+scanned and mapped every visible mile of its surface until selenography
+had achieved an exactness comparable to earth cartography. Scientists
+had proved beyond doubt that the moon wasn't made of green cheese. But
+no human eye had ever beheld its surface as Crag was doing now--Crag,
+Prochaska, Larkwell and Nagel. The latter two were peering through the
+side ports. Prochaska and Crag shared the forward panel. It was a
+tribute to the event that no word was spoken. Aside from the Chief's
+occasional checks on Drone Able and Bandit--the name stuck--the four
+pairs of eyes seldom left the satellite's surface.
+
+The landing plan called for circling the moon during which they were to
+maneuver Drone Able into independent orbit. It was Crag's job to bring
+the Aztec down at a precise point in Crater Arzachel and the Chief's job
+to handle the drone landings, a task as ticklish as landing the Aztec
+itself.
+
+The spot chosen for landing was in an area where the Crater's floor was
+broken by a series of rills--wide, shallow cracks the earth scientists
+hoped would give protection against the fall of meteorites. Due to lack
+of atmosphere the particles in space, ranging from dust grains to huge
+chunks of rock, were more lethal than bullets. They were another unknown
+in the gamble for the moon. A direct hit by even a grain-sized particle
+could puncture a space suit and bring instant death. A large one could
+utterly destroy the rocket itself. Larkwell's job was to construct an
+airlock in one of the rills from durable lightweight prefabricated
+plastiblocks carried in the drones. Such an airlock would protect them
+from all but vertically falling meteorites.
+
+Crag felt almost humble in the face of the task they were undertaking.
+He knew his mind alone could grasp but a minute part of the knowledge
+that went into making the expedition possible. Their saving lay in the
+fact they were but agents, protoplasmic extensions of a complex of
+computers, scientists, plans which had taken years to formulate, and a
+man named Michael Gotch who had said:
+
+"_You will land on Arzachel._"
+
+He initiated the zero phase by ordering the crew into their pressure
+suits. Prochaska took over while he donned his own bulky garment,
+grimacing as he pulled the heavy helmet over his shoulders. Later, in
+the last moments of descent, he would snap down the face plate and
+pressurize the suit. Until then he wanted all the freedom the bulky
+garments would allow.
+
+"Might as well get used to it." Prochaska grinned. He flexed his arms
+experimentally.
+
+Larkwell grunted. "Wait till they're pressurized. You'll think rigor
+mortis has set in."
+
+Crag grinned. "That's a condition I'm opposed to."
+
+"Amen." Larkwell gave a weak experimental jump and promptly smacked his
+head against the low overhead. He was smiling foolishly when Nagel
+snapped at him:
+
+"One more of those and you'll be walking around the moon without a
+pressure suit." He peevishly insisted on examining the top of the helmet
+for damage.
+
+Crag fervently hoped they wouldn't need the suits for landing. Any
+damage that would allow the Aztec's oxygen to escape would in itself be
+a death sentence, even though death might be dragged over the long
+period of time it would take to die for lack of food. An intact space
+cabin represented the only haven in which they could escape from the
+cumbersome garments long enough to tend their biological needs.
+
+Imperceptibly the sensation of weight returned, but it was not the body
+weight of earth. Even on the moon's surface they would weigh but
+one-sixth their normal weight.
+
+"Skipper, look." Prochaska's startled exclamation drew Crag's eyes to
+the radarscope. Bandit had made minute corrections in its course.
+
+"They're using steering rockets," Crag mused, trying to assess its
+meaning.
+
+"Doesn't make sense," said Prochaska. "They can't have that kind of
+power to spare. They'll need every bit they have for landing."
+
+"What's up?" Larkwell peered over their shoulders, eyeing the
+radarscope. Crag bit off an angry retort. Larkwell sensed the rebuff and
+returned away. They kept their eyes glued to the scope. Bandit
+maneuvered to a position slightly behind and to one side of the silver
+drone. Crag looked out the side port. Bandit was clearly visible, a
+monstrous cylinder boring through the void with cold precision. There
+was something ominous about it. He felt the hair prickle at the nape of
+his neck. Larkwell moved alongside him.
+
+Bandit made another minute correction. White vapor shot from its tail
+and it began to move ahead.
+
+"Using rocket power," Crag grunted. "Damn if I can figure that one out."
+
+"Looks crazy to me. I should think--" Prochaska's voice froze. A minute
+pip broke off from Bandit, boring through space toward the silver drone.
+
+"Warhead!" Crag roared the word with cold anger.
+
+Prochaska cursed softly.
+
+One second Drone Able was there, riding serenely through space. The next
+it disintegrated, blasted apart by internal explosions. Seconds later
+only fragments of the drone were visible.
+
+Prochaska stared at Crag, his face bleak. Crag's brain reeled. He
+mentally examined what had happened, culling his thoughts until one cold
+fact remained.
+
+"Mistaken identity," he said softly. "They thought it was the Aztec."
+
+"Now what?"
+
+"Now we hope they haven't any more warheads." Crag mulled the
+possibility. "Considering weight factors, I'd guess they haven't.
+Besides, there's no profit in wasting a warhead on a drone."
+
+"We hope." Prochaska studied Bandit through the port, and licked his
+lips nervously. "Think we ought to contact Alpine?"
+
+Crag weighed the question. Despite the tight beam, any communication
+could be a dead giveaway. On the other hand, Bandit either had the
+capacity to destroy them or it didn't. If it did, well, there wasn't
+much they could do about it. He reached a decision and nodded to
+Prochaska, then began coding his thoughts.
+
+He had trouble getting through on the communicator. Finally he got a
+weak return signal, then sent a brief report. Alpine acknowledged and
+cut off the air.
+
+"What now?" Prochaska asked, when Crag had finished.
+
+He shrugged and turned to the side port without answering. Bandit loomed
+large, a long thick rocket with an oddly blunted nose. A monster that
+was as deadly as it looked.
+
+"Big," he surmised. "Much bigger than this chunk of hardware."
+
+"Yeah, a regular battleship," Prochaska assented. He grinned crookedly.
+"In more ways than one."
+
+Crag sensed movement at his shoulder and turned his head. Nagel was
+studying the radarscope over his shoulder. Surprise lit his narrow face.
+
+"The drone?"
+
+"Destroyed," Crag said bruskly. "Bandit had a warhead."
+
+Nagel looked startled, then retreated to his seat without a word. Crag
+returned his attention to the enemy rocket.
+
+"What do you think?" he asked Prochaska.
+
+His answer was solemn. "It spells trouble."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+
+At a precise point in space spelled out by the Alpine computers Crag
+applied the first braking rockets. He realized that the act had been an
+immediate tip-off to the occupants of the other rocket. No matter, he
+thought. Sooner or later they had to discover it was the drone they had
+destroyed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their headlong flight was
+slowed. He nursed the rockets with care. There was no fuel to spare, no
+energy to waste, no room for error. Everything had been worked out long
+beforehand; he was merely the agent of execution.
+
+The sensation of weight gradually increased. He ordered Larkwell and
+Nagel into their seats in strapdown position. He and Prochaska shortly
+followed, but he left his shoulder harnessing loose to give his arms the
+vital freedom he needed for the intricate maneuvers ahead.
+
+The moon rushed toward them at an appalling rate. Its surface was a
+harsh grille work of black and white, a nightmarish scape of pocks and
+twisted mountains of rock rimming the flat lunar plains. It was, he
+thought, the geometry of a maniac. There was no softness, no blend of
+light and shadow, only terrible cleavages between black and white. Yet
+there was a beauty that gripped his imagination; the raw, stark beauty
+of a nature undefiled by life. No eye had ever seen the canopy of the
+heavens from the bleak surface below; no flower had ever wafted in a
+lunar breeze.
+
+Prochaska nudged his arm and indicated the scope. Bandit was almost
+abreast them. Crag nodded understandingly.
+
+"No more warheads."
+
+"Guess we're just loaded with luck," Prochaska agreed wryly.
+
+They watched ... waited ... mindless of time. Crag felt the tension
+building inside him. Occasionally he glanced at the chronometer, itching
+for action. The wait seemed interminable. Minutes or hours? He lost
+track of time.
+
+All at once his hands and mind were busy with the braking rockets,
+dials, meters. First the moon had been a pallid giant in the sky; next
+it filled the horizon. The effect was startling. The limb of the moon,
+seen as a shallow curved horizon, no longer was smooth. It appeared as a
+rugged saw-toothed arc, somehow reminding him of the Devil's Golf Course
+in California's Death Valley. It was weird and wonderful, and slightly
+terrifying.
+
+Prochaska manned the automatic camera to record the orbital and landing
+phases. He spotted the Crater of Ptolemaeus first, near the center-line
+of the disc. Crag made a minute correction with the steering rockets.
+The enemy rocket followed suit. Prochaska gave a short harsh laugh
+without humor.
+
+"Looks like we're piloting them in. Jeepers, you'd think they could do
+their own navigation."
+
+"Shows the confidence they have in us," Crag retorted.
+
+They flashed high above Ptolemaeus, a crater ninety miles in diameter
+rimmed by walls three thousand feet high. The crater fled by below them.
+South lay Alphons; and farther south, Arzachel, with walls ten thousand
+feet high rimming its vast depressed interior.
+
+Prochaska observed quietly: "Nice rugged spot. It's going to take some
+doing."
+
+"Amen."
+
+"I'm beginning to get that what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling."
+
+"I've had it right along," Crag confided.
+
+They caught only a fleeting look at Arzachel before it rushed into the
+background. Crag touched the braking rockets from time to time, gently,
+precisely, keeping his eyes moving between the radar altimeter and speed
+indicator while the Chief fed him the course data.
+
+The back side of the moon was spinning into view--the side of the moon
+never before seen by human eyes. Prochaska whistled softly. A huge
+mountain range interlaced with valleys and chasms pushed some thirty
+thousand feet into the lunar skies. Long streaks of ochre and brown
+marked its sides, the first color they had seen on the moon. Flat
+highland plains crested between the peaks were dotted with strange
+monolithic structures almost geometrical in their distribution.
+
+Prochaska was shooting the scene with the automatic camera. Crag twisted
+around several times to nod reassuringly to Nagel and Larkwell but each
+time they were occupied with the side ports, oblivious of his gesture.
+To his surprise Nagel's face was rapt, almost dreamy, completely
+absorbed by the stark lands below. Larkwell, too, was quiet with wonder.
+
+The jagged mountains fell away to a great sea, larger even than Mare
+Imbrium, and like Mare Imbrium, devoid of life. A huge crater rose from
+its center, towering over twenty thousand feet. Beyond lay more
+mountains. The land between was a wild tangle of rock, a place of
+unutterable desolation. Crag was fascinated and depressed at the same
+time. The Aztec was closing around the moon in a tight spiral.
+
+The alien landscape drew visibly nearer. He switched his attention
+between the braking rockets and instruments, trying to manage a quick
+glance at the scope. Prochaska caught his look.
+
+"Bandit's up on us," he confirmed.
+
+Crag uttered a vile epithet and Prochaska grinned. He liked to hear him
+growl, taking it as a good sign.
+
+Crag glanced worriedly at the radar altimeter and hit the braking
+rockets harder. The quick deceleration gave the impression of added
+weight, pushing them hard against their chest harnesses.
+
+He found it difficult to make the precise hand movements required. The
+Aztec was dropping with frightening rapidity. They crossed more
+mountains, seas, craters, great chasms. Time had become meaningless--had
+ceased to exist. The sheer bleakness of the face of the moon gripped his
+imagination. He saw it as the supreme challenge, the magnitude of which
+took his breath. He was Cortez scanning the land of the Aztecs. More,
+for this stark lonely terrain had never felt the stir of life. No
+benevolent Maker had created this chaos. It was an inferno without
+fire--a hell of a kind never known on earth. It was the handiwork of a
+nature on a rampage--a maddened nature whose molding clay had been
+molten lava.
+
+He stirred the controls, moved them further, holding hard. The braking
+rockets shook the ship, coming through the bulkheads as a faint roar.
+The ground came up fast. Still the landscape fled by--fled past for
+seeming days.
+
+Prochaska announced wonderingly. "We've cleared the back side. You're on
+the landing run, Skipper."
+
+Crag nodded grimly, thinking it was going to be rough. Each second, each
+split second had to be considered. There was no margin for error. No
+second chance. He checked and re-checked his instruments, juggling speed
+against altitude.
+
+Ninety-mile wide Ptolemaeus was coming around again--fast. He caught a
+glimpse through the floor port. It was a huge saucer, level at the
+bottom, rimmed by low cliffs which looked as though they had been carved
+from obsidian. The floor was split by irregular chasms, punctuated by
+sharp high pinnacles. It receded and Alphons rushed to meet them. The
+Aztec was dropping fast. Too fast? Crag looked worriedly at the radar
+altimeter and hit the braking rockets harder. Alphons passed more
+slowly. They fled south, a slim needle in the lunar skies.
+
+"Arzachel...." He breathed the name almost reverently.
+
+Prochaska glanced out the side port before hurriedly consulting the
+instruments. Thirty thousand feet! He glanced worriedly at Crag. The
+ground passed below them at a fantastic speed. They seemed to be
+dropping faster. The stark face of the planet hurtled to meet them.
+
+"Fifteen thousand feet," Prochaska half-whispered. Crag nodded. "Twelve
+thousand ... ten ... eight...." The Chief continued to chant the
+altitude readings in a strained voice. Up until then the face of the
+moon had seemed to rush toward the Aztec. All at once it changed. Now it
+was the Aztec that rushed across the hostile land--rushing and dropping.
+"Three thousand ... two thousand...." They flashed high above a great
+cliff which fell away for some ten thousand feet. At its base began the
+plain of Arzachel.
+
+Out of the corner of his eye Crag saw that Bandit was leading
+them. But higher ... much higher. Now it was needling into the
+purple-black--straight up. He gave a quick, automatic instrument check.
+The braking rockets were blasting hard. He switched one hand to the
+steering rockets.
+
+Zero minute was coming up. Bandit was ahead, but higher. It could, he
+thought, be a photo finish. Suddenly he remembered his face plate and
+snapped it shut, opening the oxygen valve. The suit grew rigid on his
+body and hampered his arms. He cursed softly and looked sideways at
+Prochaska. He was having the same difficulty. Crag managed a quick
+over-the-shoulder glance at Larkwell and Nagel. Everything seemed okay.
+
+He took a deep breath and applied full deceleration with the braking
+jets and simultaneously began manipulating the steering rockets. The
+ship vibrated from stem to stern. The forward port moved upward; the
+face of the moon swished past and disappeared. Bandit was lost to sight.
+The ship trembled, shuddered and gave a violent wrench. Crag was thrown
+forward.
+
+The Aztec began letting down, tail first. It was a sickening moment. The
+braking rockets astern, heavy with smoke, thundered through the hull.
+The smoke blanketed out the ports. The cabin vibrated. He straightened
+the nose with the steering rockets, letting the ship fall in a vertical
+attitude, tail first. He snapped a glance at the radar altimeter and
+punched a button.
+
+A servo mechanism somewhere in the ship started a small motor. A tubular
+spidery metal framework was projected out from the tail, extending some
+twenty feet before it locked into position. It was a failing device
+intended to absorb the energy generated by the landing impact.
+
+Prochaska looked worriedly out the side port. Crag followed his eyes.
+Small details on the plain of Arzachel loomed large--pits, cracks, low
+ridges of rock. Suddenly the plain was an appalling reality. Rocky
+fingers reached to grip them. He twisted his head until he caught sight
+of Bandit. It was moving down, tail first, but it was still high in the
+sky. Too high, he thought. He took a fast look at the radar altimeter
+and punched the full battery of braking rockets again. The force on his
+body seemed unbearable. Blood was forced into his head, blurring his
+vision. His ears buzzed and his spine seemed to be supporting some
+gigantic weight. The pressure eased and the ground began moving up more
+slowly. The rockets were blasting steadily.
+
+For a split-second the ship seemed to hang in mid-air followed by a
+violent shock. The cabin teetered, then smashed onto the plain, swaying
+as the framework projecting from the tail crumpled. The shock drove them
+hard into their seats. They sat for a moment before full realization
+dawned. They were down--alive!
+
+Crag and Prochaska simultaneously began shucking their safety belts.
+Crag was first. He sprang to the side port just in time to see the last
+seconds of Bandit's landing. It came down fast, a perpendicular needle
+stabbing toward the lunar surface. Flame spewed from its braking
+rockets; white smoke enveloped its nose.
+
+Fast ... too fast, he thought. Suddenly the flame licked out. Fuel
+error. The thought flashed through his mind. The fuel Bandit had wasted
+in space maneuvering to destroy the drone had left it short. The rocket
+seemed to hang in the sky for a scant second before it plummeted
+straight down, smashing into the stark lunar landscape. The Chief had
+reached his side just in time to witness the crash.
+
+"That's all for them," he said. "Can't say I'm sorry."
+
+"Serves 'em damn well right," growled Crag. He became conscious of Nagel
+and Larkwell crowding to get a look and obligingly moved to one side
+without taking his eyes from the scene. He tried to judge Bandit's
+distance.
+
+"Little over two miles," he estimated aloud.
+
+"You can't tell in this vacuum," Prochaska advised. "Your eyes play you
+tricks. Wait'll I try the scope." A moment later he turned admiringly
+from the instrument.
+
+"Closer to three miles. Pretty good for a green hand."
+
+Crag laughed, a quiet laugh of self-satisfaction, and said, "I could use
+a little elbow room. Any volunteers?"
+
+"Liberty call," Prochaska sang out. "All ashore who's going ashore. The
+gals are waiting."
+
+"I'm a little tired of this sardine can, myself," Larkwell put in.
+"Let's get on our Sunday duds and blow. I'd like to do the town." There
+was a murmur of assent. Nagel, who was monitoring the oxygen pressure
+gauge, spoke affirmatively. "No leaks."
+
+"Good," Crag said with relief. He took a moment off to feel exultant but
+the mood quickly vanished. There was work ahead--sheer drudgery.
+
+"Check suit pressure," he ordered.
+
+They waited a moment longer while they tested pressure, the interphones,
+and adjusted to the lack of body weight before Crag moved toward the
+hatch. Prochaska prompted them to actuate their temperature controls:
+
+"It's going to be hot out there."
+
+Crag nodded, checked his temperature dial and started to open the hatch.
+The lock-lever resisted his efforts for a moment. He tested the dogs
+securing the door. Several of them appeared jammed. Panic touched his
+mind. He braced his body, moving against one of the lock levers with all
+his strength. It gave, then another. He loosened the last lock braced
+against the blast of escaping air. The hatch exploded open.
+
+He stood for a moment looking at the ground, some twenty feet below. The
+metal framework now crumpled below the tail had done its work. It had
+struck, failing, and in doing so had absorbed a large amount of impact
+energy which otherwise would have been absorbed by the body of the
+rocket with possible damage to the space cabin.
+
+The Aztec's tail fins were buried in what appeared to be a powdery ash.
+The rocket was canted slightly but, he thought, not dangerously so.
+Larkwell broke out the rope ladder provided for descent and was looking
+busy. Now it was his turn to shine. He hooked the ladder over two pegs
+and let the other end fall to the ground. He tested it then straightened
+up and turned to Crag.
+
+"You may depart, Sire."
+
+Crag grinned and started down the ladder. It was clumsy work. The bulk
+and rigidity of his suit made his movements uncertain, difficult. He
+descended slowly, testing each step. He hesitated at the last rung,
+thinking: _This is it!_ He let his foot dangle above the surface for a
+moment before plunging it down into the soft ash mantle, then walked a
+few feet, ankle deep in a fine gray powder. First human foot to touch
+the moon, he thought. The first human foot ever to step beyond the
+world. Yeah, the human race was on the way--led by Adam Philip Crag. He
+felt good.
+
+It occurred to him then that he was not the real victor. That honor
+belonged to a man 240,000 miles away. Gotch had won the moon. It had
+been the opaque-eyed Colonel who had directed the conquest. He, Crag,
+was merely a foot soldier. Just one of the troops. All at once he felt
+humble.
+
+Prochaska came down next, followed by Nagel. Larkwell was last. They
+stood in a half-circle looking at each other, awed by the thing they had
+done. No one spoke. They shifted their eyes outward, hungrily over the
+plain, marveling at the world they had inherited. It was a bleak,
+hostile world encompassed in a bowl whose vast depressed interior
+alternately was burned and frozen by turn. To their north the rim of
+Arzachel towered ten thousand feet, falling away as it curved over the
+horizon to the east and west. The plain to the south was a flat expanse
+of gray punctuated by occasional rocky knolls and weird, needle-sharp
+pinnacles, some of which towered to awesome heights.
+
+Southeast a long narrow spur of rock rose and crawled over the floor of
+the crater for several miles before it dipped again into its ashy bed.
+Crag calculated that a beeline to Bandit would just about skirt the
+southeast end of the spur. Another rock formation dominated the
+middle-expanse of the plain to the south. It rose, curving over the
+crater floor like the spinal column of some gigantic lizard--a great
+crescent with its horns pointed toward their present position. Prochaska
+promptly dubbed it "Backbone Ridge," a name that stuck.
+
+Crag suddenly remembered what he had to do, and coughed meaningfully
+into his lip mike. The group fell silent. He faced the distant northern
+cliffs and began to speak:
+
+"I, Adam Crag, by the authority vested in me by the Government of the
+United States of America, do hereby claim this land, and all the lands
+of the moon, as legal territory of the United States of America, to be a
+dominion of the United States of America, subject to its Government and
+laws."
+
+When he finished, he was quiet for a minute. "For the record, this is
+Pickering Field. I think he'd like that," he added. There was a lump in
+his throat.
+
+Prochaska said quietly, "Gotch will like it, too. Hadn't we better
+record that and transmit it to Alpine?"
+
+"It's already recorded." Crag grinned. "All but the Pickering Field
+part. Gotch wrote it out himself."
+
+"Confident bastard." Larkwell smiled. "He had a lot more faith than I
+did."
+
+"Especially the way you brought that stovepipe down," Nagel interjected.
+There was a moment of startled silence.
+
+Prochaska said coldly. "I hope you do your job as well."
+
+Nagel looked provocatively at him but didn't reply.
+
+Larkwell had been studying the terrain. "Wish Able had made it," he said
+wistfully. "I'd like to get started on that airlock. It's going to be a
+honey to build."
+
+"Amen." Crag swept his eyes over the ashy surface. "The scientists
+figure that falling meteorites may be our biggest hazard."
+
+"Not if we follow the plan of building our airlock in a rill," Larkwell
+interjected. "Then the only danger would be from stuff coming straight
+down."
+
+"Agreed. But the fact remains that we lost Able. We'll have to chance
+living in the Aztec until Drone Baker arrives."
+
+"If it makes it."
+
+"It'll make it," Crag answered with certainty. Their safe landing had
+boosted his confidence. They'd land Baker and Charlie, in that order, he
+thought. They'd locate a shallow rill; then they'd build an airlock to
+protect them against chance meteorites. That's the way they'd do it;
+one ... two ... three....
+
+"We've got it whipped," Prochaska observed, but his voice didn't hold
+the certainty of his words.
+
+Crag said, "I was wondering if we couldn't assess the danger. It might
+not be so great...."
+
+"How?" Prochaska asked curiously.
+
+"No wind, no air, no external forces to disturb the ash mantle, except
+for meteorites. Any strike would leave a trace. We might smooth off a
+given area and check for hits after a couple of days. That would give
+some idea of the danger." He faced Prochaska.
+
+"What do you think?"
+
+"But the ash itself is meteorite dust," he protested.
+
+"We could at least chart the big hits--those large enough to damage the
+rocket."
+
+"We'll know if any hit," Larkwell prophesied grimly.
+
+"Maybe not;" Nagel cut in. "Supposing it's pinhole size? The air could
+seep out and we wouldn't know it until too late."
+
+Crag said decisively. "That means we'll have to maintain a watch over
+the pressure gauge."
+
+"That won't help if it's a big chunk." Prochaska scraped his toe through
+the ash. "The possibility's sort of disconcerting."
+
+"Too damned many occupational hazards for me," Larkwell ventured. "I
+must have had rocks in my head when I volunteered for this one."
+
+"All brawn and no brain." Crag gave a wry smile. "That's the kind of
+fodder that's needed for deep space."
+
+Prochaska said, "We ought to let Gotch know he's just acquired a few
+more acres."
+
+"Right." Crag hesitated a moment. "Then we'll check out on Bandit."
+
+"Why?" Larkwell asked.
+
+"There might be some survivors."
+
+"Let them rot," Nagel growled.
+
+"That's for me to decide," Crag said coldly. He stared hard at the
+oxygen man. "We're still human."
+
+Nagel snapped, "They're damned murderers."
+
+"That's no reason we should be." Crag turned back toward the ladder.
+When he reached it, he paused and looked skyward. The sun was a precise
+circle of intolerable white light set amid the ebony of space. The stars
+seemed very close.
+
+The space cabin was a vacuum. At Nagel's suggestion they kept pressure
+to a minimum to preserve oxygen. When they were out of their suits,
+Prochaska got on the radio. He had difficulty raising Alpine Base,
+working for several minutes before he got an answering signal. When the
+connection was made, Crag moved into Prochaska's place and switched to
+his ear insert microphone. He listened to the faint slightly metallic
+voice for a moment before he identified it as Gotch's. He thought: _The
+Old Man must be living in the radio shack._ He adjusted his headset and
+sent a lengthy report.
+
+If Gotch were jubilant over the fruition of his dream, he carefully
+concealed it. He congratulated Crag and the crew, speaking in precise
+formal terms, and almost immediately launched into a barrage of
+questions regarding their next step. The Colonel's reaction nettled him.
+Lord, he should be jubilant ... jumping with joy ... waltzing the
+telephone gal. Instead he was speaking with a business-as-usual manner.
+Gotch left it up to Crag on whether or not to attempt a rescue
+expedition.
+
+"But not if it endangers the expedition in any way," he added. He
+informed him that Drone Baker had been launched without mishap. "Just
+be ready for her," he cautioned. "And again--congratulations,
+Commander." There was a pause....
+
+"I think Pickering Field is a fitting name." The voice in the earphones
+died away and Crag found himself listening to the static of space. He
+pulled the sets off and turned to Nagel.
+
+"How much oxygen would a man need for a round trip to Bandit, assuming a
+total distance of seven miles."
+
+"It's not that far," Prochaska reminded.
+
+"There might be detours."
+
+Nagel calculated rapidly. "An extra cylinder would do it."
+
+"Okay, Larkwell and I'll go. You and Prochaska stand by." Crag caught
+the surprised look on the Chief's face.
+
+"There might be communication problems," he explained. Privately, he had
+decided that no man would be left alone until the mystery of the time
+bomb was cleared up.
+
+Prochaska nodded. The arrangement made sense. Nagel appeared pleased
+that he didn't have to make the long trek. Larkwell, on the other hand,
+seemed glad to have been chosen.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 9
+
+
+There is no dawn on the moon, no dusk, no atmosphere to catch and spread
+the light of the sun. When the lunar night ends--a night two earth weeks
+long--the sun simply pops over the horizon, bringing its intolerable
+heat. But the sky remains black--black and sprinkled with stars agleam
+with a light unknown on earth. At night the temperature is 250 degrees
+below zero; by day it is the heat of boiling water. Yet the sun is but
+an intense circle of white aloft in a nigrescent sky. It was a world
+such as Crag had scarcely dreamed of--alien, hostile, fantastic in its
+architecture--a bizarre world spawned by a nature in revolt.
+
+Crag stopped to adjust the temperature control on his suit. He started
+to mop his brow before he remembered the helmet. Larkwell saw the
+gesture, and behind his thick face plate his lips wrinkled in a grin.
+"Go on, scratch it," he challenged.
+
+"This moon's going to take a lot of getting used to." Crag swept his
+eyes over the bleak plain. "And they send four men to conquer this."
+
+"It ain't conquered yet," Larkwell spat.
+
+Crag's answer was a sober reflection. "No, it isn't," he said quietly.
+He contemplated the soot-filled sky, its magic lanterns, then looked
+down again at the plain.
+
+"Let's get moving."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was dawn--dawn in the sense that the sun had climbed above the
+horizon. The landing had been planned for sunup--the line which divided
+night from day--to give them the benefit of a two-week day before
+another instantaneous onslaught of night.
+
+They moved slowly across the ashy floor of the crater, occasionally
+circling small knolls or jagged rock outcroppings. Despite the
+cumbersome suits and the burden of the extra oxygen cylinder each
+carried, they made good time. Crag led the way with Larkwell close
+behind, threading his way toward the spot where the enemy rocket had
+fallen from the sky. They had to stop several times to rest and regulate
+their temperature controls. Despite the protective garments they were
+soon sweating and panting, gasping for breath with the feeling of
+suffocation. Crag felt the water trickling down his body in rivulets
+and began to itch, a sensation that was almost a pain.
+
+"It's not going to be a picnic," Larkwell complained. His voice sounded
+exhausted in the earphones.
+
+Crag grunted without answering. His feet ploughed up little spurts of
+dust which fell as quickly as they rose. Like water dropping, he
+thought. He wondered how long they would be able to endure the heat.
+Could they possibly adapt their bodies to such an environment? What of
+the cold of night? The questions bothered him. He tried to visualize
+what it would be like to plunge from boiling day to the bitterly cold
+night within the space of moments. Would they be able to take it? He
+grinned to himself. They'd find out!
+
+At the next halt they looked back at the Aztec.
+
+"We don't seem to be getting anywhere," Larkwell observed. Crag
+contemplated the rocket. He was right. The ship seemed almost as large
+and clear as ever.
+
+"Your eyes trick you," he said. "It's just another thing we'll have to
+get used to." He let his eyes linger on the plain. It was washed with a
+brilliant light which even their glare shields didn't diminish. Each
+rock, each outcrop cast long black shadows--black silhouettes against
+the white ash. There were no grays, no intermediate shades. Everything
+was either black or white. His eyes began to ache and he turned them
+from the scene. He nodded at Larkwell and resumed his trek. He was
+trudging head down when he suddenly stopped. A chasm yawned at his feet.
+
+"Mighty wide," Larkwell observed, coming up.
+
+"Yeah," said Crag, indecisively. The rift was about twenty feet wide,
+its bottom lost in black shadows.
+
+Larkwell studied the chasm carefully. "Might be just the rill we need
+for an airlock. If it's not too deep," he added. He picked up a boulder
+and dropped it over the edge, waiting expectantly. Crag chuckled. The
+construction man had forgotten that sound couldn't be transmitted
+through a vacuum. Larkwell caught the laugh in his earphones and smiled
+weakly.
+
+He said sheepishly, "Something else to learn."
+
+"We've plenty to learn." Crag looked both ways. To the right the chasm
+seemed to narrow and, although he wasn't sure, end.
+
+"Let's try it," he suggested. Larkwell nodded agreement. They trudged
+along the edge of the fissure, walking slowly to conserve their energy.
+The plain became more uneven. Small outcroppings of black glassy rock
+punctured the ash, becoming more numerous as they progressed. Occasional
+saw-toothed needles pierced the sky. Several times they stopped and
+looked back at the Aztec. It was a black cylinder, smaller yet seemingly
+close.
+
+Crag's guess was right. The chasm narrowed abruptly and terminated at
+the base of a small knoll. Both rockets were now hidden by intervening
+rocks. He hesitated before striking out, keeping Backbone Ridge to his
+right. The ground became progressively more uneven. They trudged onward
+for over a mile before he caught sight of the Aztec again. He paused,
+with the feeling something was wrong. Larkwell put it into words.
+
+"Lost."
+
+"Not lost, but off course." Crag took a moment to get his bearings and
+then struck out again thinking their oxygen supply couldn't stand many
+of these mistakes.
+
+"How you doing, Skipper?"
+
+Crag gave a start before remembering that Prochaska and Nagel were cut
+into their intercom.
+
+"Lousy," he told them. He gave a brief run-down.
+
+"Just happened to think that I could help guide you. I'll work you with
+the scope," Prochaska said.
+
+"Of course," Crag exclaimed, wondering why they hadn't thought of it
+before. One thing was certain: they'd have to start remembering a lot
+of things. Thereafter, they checked with Prochaska every few minutes.
+
+The ground constantly changed as they progressed. One moment it was
+level, dusty with ash; the next it was broken by low rocky ridges and
+interlacing chasms. Minutes extended into seeming hours and they had to
+stop for rest from time to time. Crag was leading the way across a small
+ravine when Larkwell's voice brought him up short:
+
+"Commander, we're forgetting something."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Radcounters. Mine's whispering a tune I didn't like."
+
+"Not a thing to worry about," Crag assured him. "The raw ores aren't
+that potent." Nevertheless he unhooked his counter and studied it.
+Larkwell was right. They were on hot ground but the count was low.
+
+"Won't bother us a bit," he affirmed cheerfully.
+
+Larkwell's answer was a grunt. Crag checked the instrument several times
+thinking that before long--when they were settled--they would mark off
+the boundaries of the lode. Gotch would want that. The count rose
+slightly. Once he caught Larkwell nervously consulting his meter.
+Clearly the construction boss wasn't too happy over their position. Crag
+wanted to tell him he had been reading too many Sunday supplements but
+didn't.
+
+Prochaska broke in, "You're getting close." His voice was a faint
+whisper over the phones. "Maybe you'd better make a cautious approach."
+
+Crag remembered the fate of Drone Able and silently agreed. Thereafter
+he kept his eyes peeled. They climbed a small knoll and saw Bandit. He
+abruptly halted, waiting until Larkwell reached his side.
+
+The rocket lay at the base of the slope, which fell away before them. It
+was careened at a crazy angle with its base crumpled. A wide cleft
+running half way to its nose was visible. Crag studied the rocket
+carefully.
+
+"Might still be oxygen in the space cabin," he ventured finally. "The
+break in the hull might not reach that far."
+
+"It does," Larkwell corrected. His eyes, trained in construction work,
+had noted small cracks in the metal extending up alongside the hatch.
+
+"No survivors in there," he grunted.
+
+Crag said thoughtfully: "Might be, if they had on their pressure suits.
+And they would have," he added.
+
+He hesitated before striking across the clearing, then began moving down
+the slope. Larkwell followed slowly. As he neared the rocket Crag saw
+that it lacked any type of failing device to absorb the landing impact.
+That, at least, had been one secret kept, he thought. He was wondering
+how to get into the space cabin when Larkwell solved the problem. He
+drew a thin hemp line from a leg pocket and began uncoiling it. Crag
+smiled approval.
+
+"Never without one in the construction business," he explained. He
+studied Bandit. "Maybe I can hook it over the top of that busted tail
+fin, then work my way up the break in the hull."
+
+"Let me try," Crag offered. The climb looked hazardous.
+
+"This is my province." Larkwell snorted. He ran his eye over the ship
+before casting the line. He looked surprised when it shot high above the
+intended target point.
+
+"Keep forgetting the low gravity," he apologized. He tried again. On the
+third throw he hooked the line over the torn tailfin. He rubbed his
+hands against his suit then started upward, climbing clumsily, each
+movement exaggerated by the bulky suit. He progressed slowly, testing
+each step. Crag held his breath. Larkwell gripped the line with his body
+swung outward, his feet planted against the vertical metal, reminding
+Crag of a human fly. He stopped to rest just below the level of the
+space cabin.
+
+"Thought a man was supposed to be able to jump thirty feet on the moon,"
+he panted.
+
+"You can if you peel those duds off," Crag replied cheerfully. He ran
+his eye over the break noting the splintered metal. "Be careful of your
+suit."
+
+Larkwell didn't answer. He was busy again trying to pull his body
+upward, using the break in the hull to obtain finger grips. Only the
+moon's low gravity allowed him to perform what looked like an impossible
+task. He finally reached a point alongside the hatch and paused,
+breathing heavily. He rested a moment, then carefully inserted his hand
+into the break in the hull. After a moment he withdrew it, and fumbled
+in his leg pocket withdrawing a switchblade knife.
+
+"Got to cut through the lining," he explained. He worked the knife
+around inside the break for several minutes, then closed the blade and
+reinserted his hand, feeling around until he located the lockbar.
+
+He tugged. It didn't give. He braced his body and exerted all of his
+strength. This time it moved. He rested a moment then turned his
+attention to the remaining doglocks. In short time he had the hatch
+open. Carefully, then, he pulled his body across to the black rectangle
+and disappeared inside.
+
+"See anything?" Crag shifted his feet restlessly.
+
+"Dead men." Larkwell's voice sounded relieved over the phones. "Smashed
+face plates." There was a long moment of silence. Crag waited
+impatiently.
+
+"Just a second," he finally reported. "Looks like a live one." There was
+another interval of silence while Crag stewed. Finally he appeared in
+the opening with a hemp ladder.
+
+"Knew they had to have some way of getting out of this trap," he
+announced triumphantly. He knelt and secured one end to the hatch
+combing and let the other end drop to the ground.
+
+Crag climbed to meet him. Larkwell extended a hand and helped him
+through the hatch. One glance at the interior of the cabin told him that
+any life left was little short of a miracle. The man in the pilot's seat
+lay with his faceplate smashed against the instrument panel. The top of
+his fiberglass helmet had shattered and the top of his head was a bloody
+mess. A second crewman was sprawled over the communication console with
+his face smashed into the radarscope. His suit had been ripped from
+shoulder to waist and one leg was twisted at a crazy angle. Crag turned
+his eyes away.
+
+"Here," Larkwell grunted. He was bent over the third and last crewman,
+who had been strapped in a bucket seat immediately behind the pilot.
+Crag moved to his side and looked down at the recumbent figure. The
+man's suit seemed to have withstood the terrible impact. His helmet
+looked intact, and his faceplate was clouded.
+
+Prochaska nodded affirmatively. "Breathing," he said.
+
+Crag knelt and checked the unconscious man as best he could before
+finally getting back to his feet.
+
+"It's going to be a helluva job getting him back."
+
+Larkwell's eyes opened with surprise. "You mean we're going to lug that
+bastard back to the Aztec?"
+
+"We are."
+
+Larkwell didn't reply. Crag loosened the unconscious man from his
+harnessing. Larkwell watched for a while before stooping to help. When
+the last straps were free they pulled him close to the edge of the hatch
+opening. Crag made a mental inventory of the cabin while Larkwell
+unscrewed two metal strips from a bulkhead and laced straps from the
+safety harnessing between them, making a crude stretcher.
+
+Crag opened a narrow panel built into the rear bulkhead and
+involuntarily whistled into his lip mike. It contained two
+short-barreled automatic rifles and a supply of ammunition. Larkwell
+eyed the arms speculatively.
+
+"Looks like they expected good hunting," he observed.
+
+"Yeah," Crag grimly agreed. He slammed the metal panel shut and looked
+distastefully at the unconscious man. "I've a damned good notion to
+leave him here."
+
+"That's what I was thinking."
+
+Crag debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're elected
+as angels of mercy. Well, let's go."
+
+"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss spat. He
+looped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled him to the
+brink of the opening.
+
+"Ought to shove him out and let him bounce a while," he growled.
+
+Crag didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metal
+stanchion and signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through the
+hatch. Crag let the line out slowly until it became slack. Larkwell
+straightened up and leaned against the hatch combing with a foolish look
+on his face. Crag took one look at his gaping expression.
+
+"Oxygen," he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extra
+cylinder from his belt and hooked it into Larkwell's suit, turning the
+valve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatch
+combing before Crag managed to pull him to safety.
+
+Within moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quickly
+checked his own oxygen. It was low. Too low. The time they had lost
+taking the wrong route ... the time taken to open Bandit's hatch ... had
+upset Nagel's oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember in
+the future. He switched cylinders, then made a rapid calculation. It was
+evident they couldn't carry the injured man back with the amount of
+oxygen remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem to
+Nagel.
+
+"Try one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit."
+
+"No go. I've already looked them over." He kicked the problem around in
+his mind.
+
+"Here's the routine," he told him. "You start out to meet us with a
+couple of extra cylinders. We'll take along a couple of Bandit's spares
+to last this critter until you can modify the valves on his suit to fit
+our equipment. Prochaska can guide the works. Okay?"
+
+"Roger," Prochaska cut in. Nagel gave an affirmative grunt.
+
+Crag lowered two of Bandit's cylinders and the stretcher to the floor of
+the crater, then took a last look around the cabin. Gotch, he knew,
+would ask him a thousand technical questions regarding the rocket's
+construction, equipment, and provisioning. He filed the mental pictures
+away for later analysis and turned to Larkwell.
+
+"Let's go." They descended to the plain and rolled the unconscious
+crewman onto the stretcher. Crag grunted as he hoisted his end. It
+wasn't going to be easy.
+
+The return trip proved a nightmare. Despite the moon's low surface
+gravity--one-sixth that of earth--the stretcher seemed an intolerable
+weight pulling at their arms. They trudged slowly toward the Aztec with
+Crag in the lead, their feet kicking up little fountains of dust.
+
+Before they had gone half a mile, they were sweating profusely and their
+arms and shoulders ached under their burden. Larkwell walked silently,
+steadily, but his breath was becoming a hoarse pant in Crag's earphones.
+The thought came to Crag that they wouldn't make it if, by any chance,
+Nagel failed to meet them. But he can't fail--not with Prochaska guiding
+them, he thought.
+
+They reached the end of the rill and stopped to rest. Crag checked his
+oxygen meter. Not good. Not good at all, but he didn't say anything to
+Larkwell. The construction boss swung his eyes morosely over the plain
+and cursed.
+
+"Nine planets and thirty-one satellites in the Solar System and we had
+to pick this dog," he grumbled. "Gotch must be near-sighted."
+
+Crag sighed and picked up his end of the stretcher. When Larkwell had
+followed suit they resumed their trek. They were moving around the base
+of a small knoll when Larkwell's foot struck a pothole in the ash and he
+stumbled. He dropped the end of the stretcher in trying to regain his
+balance. It struck hard against the ground, transmitting the jolt to
+Crag's aching shoulders. He lowered his end of the stretcher, fearful
+the plow had damaged the injured man's helmet. Larkwell watched
+unsympathetically while he examined it.
+
+"Won't make much difference," he said.
+
+Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
+
+"Yeah, carrying Lucifer."
+
+The helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. They
+hoisted the stretcher and resumed their slow trek toward the Aztec.
+
+Crag's body itched from perspiration. His face was hot, flushed and his
+heart thudded in his ears. Larkwell's breathing became a harsh rasp in
+the interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Crag
+thought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meter
+several times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears into
+words.
+
+"We'd better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," he
+growled. "We're not going to make it this way."
+
+"Nagel should reach us soon."
+
+"Soon won't be soon enough."
+
+"Nagel! Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
+
+"Moving right along." The oxygen man's voice was a flat imperturbed
+twang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm was
+maddening. But it was their necks that were in danger. He repressed his
+anger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemy
+crewman. If he lived?
+
+In short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point of
+telling him to shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He was
+moving slowly, stooped under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders.
+He appeared somewhat like an ungainly robot, moving with mechanical
+steps--the movements of a machine rather than a man. Crag kept his eyes
+on him. Nagel never faltered, never changed pace. His figure grew
+steadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray ash. Crag
+suddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked the
+strength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added to
+his despair.
+
+They met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash and
+squirmed to straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure in
+the stretcher, then at Crag.
+
+"Doesn't make much sense to me," he said critically. "Where are we going
+to get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?"
+
+"That's my worry," Crag snapped shortly.
+
+"Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen man."
+
+Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was none. Nagel was merely
+stating a fact--an honest worry. His temper was subsiding when Larkwell
+spoke.
+
+"He's right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill.
+Hell, we've got worries enough without...."
+
+"Knock it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence during
+which the others looked defiantly at him.
+
+"Stop the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He felt on the
+verge of an explosion, wanted to lash out. Take it easy, he told
+himself.
+
+With fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier.
+Prochaska was waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to the
+safety of the space cabin. When it was pressurized they removed their
+suits and Crag began to strip the heavy space garments from the injured
+man's body. He finished and stepped back, letting him lie on the deck.
+
+They stood in a tight half-circle, silently studying the inert figure.
+It was that of an extremely short man, about five feet, Crag judged, and
+thin. A thinness without emaciation. His face was pale, haggard and,
+like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He appeared in his
+late thirties or early forties but Crag surmised he was much younger.
+His chest rose and fell irregularly and his breathing was harsh. Crag
+knelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow, fast.
+
+"I don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries ...
+or just a bad concussion."
+
+"To hell with him," spat Larkwell.
+
+Prochaska said, "He'll either live or die. In either case there's not
+much we can do about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact.
+Crag nodded agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding over
+the possible complications of having an enemy in their midst when his
+nostrils caught a familiar whiff. He turned, startled. The Chief was
+holding a pot of coffee.
+
+"I did smuggle one small helping," he confessed.
+
+Crag looked thoughtfully at the pot. "I should cite you for a
+court-martial. However ..." He reached for the cup the Chief was
+extending.
+
+They drank the coffee slowly, savoring each drop, while Larkwell
+outlined their next step. It was one Crag had been worrying about.
+
+"As you know, the plans call for living in the Aztec until we can get a
+sheltered airlock into operation," Larkwell explained. "To do that we
+gotta lower this baby to the horizontal so I can loosen the afterburner
+section and clear out the gunk. Then we can get the prime airlock
+installed and working. That should give us ample quarters until we can
+build the permanent lock--maybe in that rill we passed."
+
+"We got to rush that," Nagel cut in. "Right now we lose total cabin
+pressure every time we stir out of this trap. We can't keep it up for
+long."
+
+Crag nodded. Nagel was right. The airlock had to be the first order of
+business. The plans called for just such a move and, accordingly, the
+rocket had been designed with such a conversion in mind. Only it had
+been planned as a short-term stopgap--one to be used only until a
+below-surface airlock could be constructed. Now that Drone Able had been
+lost--
+
+"Golly, what'll we do with all the room?" Prochaska broke in humorously.
+He flicked his eyes around the cabin. "Just imagine, we'll be able to
+sleep stretched out instead of doubled up in a bucket seat."
+
+Larkwell took up the conversation and they listened while he outlined
+the step-by-step procedure. It was his show and they gave him full
+stage. He suggested they might be able to use one of Aztec's now useless
+servo motors in the task. When he finished, Crag glanced down at the
+Bandit crewman. Pale blue eyes stared back at him. Ice-blue, calm, yet
+tinged with mockery. They exchanged a long look.
+
+"Feel better?" Crag finally asked, wondering if by any chance he spoke
+English.
+
+"Yes, thank you." The voice held the barest suggestion of an accent.
+
+"We brought you to our ship ..." Crag stopped, wondering how to proceed.
+After all the man was an enemy. A dangerous one at that.
+
+"So I see." The voice was laconic. "Why?"
+
+"We're human," snapped Crag brutally. The pale blue eyes regarded him
+intently.
+
+"I'm Adam Crag, Commander," he added. The Bandit crewman tried to push
+himself up on his elbow. His face blanched and he fell back.
+
+"I seem to be a trifle weak," he apologized. He looked at the circle of
+faces before his eyes settled back on Crag. "My name is Richter. Otto
+Richter."
+
+Prochaska said, "That's a German name."
+
+"I am German."
+
+"On an Iron Curtain rocket?" Nagel asked sarcastically. Richter gave the
+oxygen man a long cool look.
+
+"That seems to be the case," he said finally. The group fell silent. It
+was Crag's move. He hesitated. When he spoke his tone was decisive.
+
+"We're stuck with you. For the time being you may regard yourself as
+confined. You will not be allowed any freedom ... until we decide what
+to do with you."
+
+"I understand."
+
+"As soon as we modify the valves on your suit to fit our cylinders we're
+going to move you outside." He instructed Nagel to get busy on the
+valves, then turned to Larkwell.
+
+"Let's get along with lowering this baby."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 10
+
+
+"Gordon Nagel?" The professor turned the name over in his mind. "Yes, I
+believe I recall him. Let's see, that would have been about...." He
+paused, looking thoughtfully into space.
+
+The agent said, "Graduated in '55. One of your honor students."
+
+"Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten?" The Professor folded his hands
+across his plump stomach and settled back in his chair.
+
+"I seem to recall him as sort of an intense, nervous type," he said at
+last. "Sort of withdrawn but, as you mentioned, quite brilliant. Now
+that I think of it--"
+
+He abruptly stopped speaking and looked at the agent with a startled
+face.
+
+"You mean the man in the moon?" he blurted.
+
+"Yes, that's the one."
+
+"Ah, no wonder the name sounded so familiar. But, of course, we have so
+many famous alumni. Ruthill University prides itself--"
+
+"Of course," the agent cut in.
+
+The professor gave him a hurt look before he began talking again. He
+rambled at length. Every word he uttered was taped on the agent's pocket
+recorder.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Gordon Nagel, the young man on the moon flight? Why certainly I recall
+young Nagel," the high school principal said. "A fine student ... one of
+the best." He looked archly at the agent down a long thin nose.
+
+"Braxton High School is extremely proud of Gordon Nagel. Extremely
+proud. If I say so myself he has set a mark for other young men to
+strive for."
+
+"Of course," the agent agreed.
+
+"This is a case which well vindicates the stress we've put on the
+physical and life sciences," the principal continued. "It is the
+objective of Braxton High School to give every qualified student the
+groundwork he needs for later academic success. That is, students with
+sufficiently high I.Q.," he added.
+
+"Certainly, but about Gordon Nagel...?"
+
+"Yes, of course." The principal began to speak again. The agent relaxed,
+listening. He didn't give a damn about the moon but he was extremely
+interested in the thirty some years of Nagel's life preceding that trip.
+Very much so. He left the school thinking that Nagel owed quite a lot to
+Braxton High. At least the principal had inferred as much.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Yes, I did go with Gordon for a while," Mrs. LeRoy Farwell said. "But
+of course it was never serious. Just an occasional school dance or
+something. He might be famous but, well, frankly he wasn't my type. He
+was an awful drip." Her eyes brushed the agent's face meaningfully.
+
+"I like 'em live, if you know what I mean."
+
+"Certainly, Mrs. Farwell," the agent said gravely. "But about Nagel...?"
+
+There were many people representing three decades of contact with Gordon
+Nagel. Some of them recalled him only fleetingly. Others rambled at
+length. Odd little entries came to life to fit into the dossier.
+Photographs and records were exhumed. Gordon Nagel ... Gordon Nagel....
+
+The file on Gordon Nagel grew.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Colonel Michael Gotch didn't like the idea of an addition to the Aztec
+crew. Didn't like it at all. He informed Crag that the rescue had been
+entirely unnecessary. Unrealistic, was the word he had used. He was
+extremely interested in the fact that Bandit housed an arsenal. He
+suggested, in view of Drone Able's loss, they shouldn't overlook
+Bandit's supplies.
+
+"Especially as you have another mouth to feed," he said blandly.
+
+Crag agreed. He didn't say so but he had already planned just such a
+move. The Colonel immediately launched into a barrage of questions
+concerning the crashed rocket. He seemed grieved when Crag couldn't
+supply answers down to the last detail.
+
+"Look," Crag finally exploded, "give us time ... time. We just got here.
+Remember?"
+
+"Yes ... yes, I know. But the information is vital," Gotch said firmly.
+"I would appreciate it if you would try...."
+
+Crag cursed and snapped the communicator off.
+
+"What's wrong? The bird colonel heckling you?"
+
+"Hounding is the word," Crag corrected. He fixed the Chief with a
+baleful eye and uttered an epithet with regard to the Colonel's
+ancestry. Prochaska chuckled.
+
+Larkwell quickly demonstrated that he knew the Aztec inside and out far
+better than did any of the others. Aside from several large cables
+supplied expressly for the purpose of lowering the rocket, he obtained
+the rest of the equipment needed from the ship.
+
+Under his direction two winches were set up about thirty yards from the
+ship and a cable run to each to form a V-line. A second line ran from
+each winch to a nearby shallow gully. Heavy weights--now useless parts
+of the ship's engines--were fastened to these and buried. The lines were
+intended to anchor the winches during the critical period of lowering
+the rocket. Finally Larkwell ran a guide line from the Aztec's nose to a
+third winch. This one was powered by an electric motor which was powered
+by the ship's batteries.
+
+While Larkwell and Nagel prepared to lower the rocket Crag smoothed off
+an area of the plain's surface and marked off a twenty-foot square. He
+finished and looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. Richter's eyes
+were filled with interest.
+
+"Using it to chart the frequency of meteorite falls," Crag explained.
+"We'd like to get an idea of the hazard."
+
+"Plenty," Richter said succinctly. He started to add more and stopped.
+Crag felt the urge to pump him but refrained. The least he became
+involved the better, he thought. It didn't escape him that the German
+seemed to have recovered to a remarkable extent. Well, that was
+something else to remember. Richter injured was one thing. But Richter
+recovered ...
+
+He snapped the thought off and turned toward the base of the rocket,
+indicating that the German should follow. Larkwell was testing the
+winches and checking the cables when they arrived.
+
+"About ready," he told Crag.
+
+"Then let her go."
+
+The construction boss nodded and barked a command to Prochaska and
+Nagel, who were manning the restraining winches. When they acknowledged
+they were ready he strode to the power winch.
+
+"Okay." His voice was a terse crack in the interphones. The Aztec
+shuddered on its base, teetering, then its nose began to cant downward.
+It moved slowly in an arc across the sky.
+
+"Take up," Larkwell barked into the mike. The guide lines tautened.
+
+"Okay."
+
+This time Prochaska and Nagel fed line through the winches more slowly.
+The nose of the rocket had passed through sixty degrees of arc when its
+tail began to inch backward, biting into the plain.
+
+"Hold up!" Larkwell circled the rocket and approached the tailfins from
+one side. He looked up at the body of the ship, then back at the base.
+Satisfied it would hold he ordered the winches started. The nose moved
+slowly toward the ground, swaying slightly from side to side. In another
+moment it lay on its belly on the plain.
+
+"Now the real work begins," Larkwell told Crag. "We gotta clean
+everything out of that stovepipe and get the airlock rigged." His voice
+was complaining but his face indicated the importance he attached to the
+job.
+
+"How long do you figure it'll take?"
+
+Larkwell rubbed his faceplate thoughtfully. "About two days, with some
+catnaps and some help."
+
+"Good." Crag looked thoughtfully at Richter. "Any reason you can't
+help?" he asked sharply.
+
+"None at all," Richter answered solemnly.
+
+While Larkwell and Nagel labored in the tail section, Crag and
+Prochaska rearranged the space cabin. The chemical commode was placed in
+one corner and a nylon curtain rigged around it--their one concession to
+civilization. Crag was conscious of Richter's eyes following
+them--weighing, analyzing, speculating. He caught himself swiveling
+around at odd times to check on him, but Richter seemed unconcerned.
+
+Electric power from the batteries was limited. For the most part they
+would be living on space rations--food concentrates supplemented with
+vitamin pills--and a square of chocolate daily per man. Later, when the
+airlock was installed in the area now occupied by the afterburners and
+machinery, they would be able to appreciably extend their living
+quarters. Until then, Crag thought wryly, they would live like
+sardines--with an enemy in their midst. An enemy and a saboteur, he
+mentally corrected. Aside from that there was the constant danger from
+meteorite falls. He shook his head despairingly. Life on the moon wasn't
+all it could be. Not by a damn sight.
+
+Nagel was becoming perturbed over their oxygen consumption. He had set
+up the small tanks containing algae in a nutrient solution, tending them
+like a mother hen. In time, if the cultivation were successful, the
+small algae farm would convert the carbon dioxide from their respiration
+into oxygen. At the present time the carbon dioxide was being absorbed
+by chemical means. As things stood, it was necessary for the entire crew
+to don spacesuits every time one of them left the cabin. Each time the
+cabin air was lost in the vacuum of the moon. Crag pointed out there was
+no alternative until the airlock was completed, a fact which didn't keep
+Nagel from complaining.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Otto Richter recovered fast. Before another day had passed--the Aztec
+continued to operate by earth clock--he seemed to have completely
+recovered. It was evident that concussion and shock had been the extent
+of his injuries. Crag didn't know whether to be sorry or glad, he
+didn't, in fact, know what to do with the man. He gave firm orders that
+Richter was never to be left alone--not for a moment.
+
+He told him: "You will not be allowed in the area of any of the
+electronic equipment. First time you do ..." He looked meaningfully at
+him.
+
+"I understand," the German said. Thereafter, except for occasional trips
+to the commode, or to help with work, he kept to the corner of the space
+cabin allotted him.
+
+Larkwell came up for the evening meal wearing a grim look. He extended
+his hand toward Crag, holding a jagged chunk of rock nearly the size of
+a baseball.
+
+Crag took the hunk and hefted it thoughtfully. "Meteorite?" The others
+clustered around.
+
+"Yeah. I saw a hole in that cleared off section and reached down. There
+she was, big as life."
+
+"If that had hit this pipe we'd be dead ducks," Prochaska observed.
+
+"But it didn't hit," Crag corrected, trying to allay any gathering
+nervousness. "It just means that we're going to have to get going on the
+rill airlock as soon as possible."
+
+"How will loss of Able affect that?" Nagel asked curiously.
+
+"Only in the matter of size," Crag explained. "The possible loss of a
+drone was taken into account. The plastiblocks are constructed to make
+any size shelter possible. We'll start immediately when Baker lands." He
+looked thoughtfully at the men. "Let's not borrow any trouble."
+
+"Yeah, there's plenty without borrowing any more," Prochaska agreed. He
+smiled cheerfully. "I vote we all stop worrying and eat."
+
+Another complication arose. Drone Baker would be in orbit the following
+morning. Prochaska had to be prepared to bring it down. He was busy
+moving his equipment into one compact corner opposite the commode. He
+rigged a curtain around it, partly for privacy but mainly to mark off a
+definite area prohibited to Richter.
+
+The communicator was becoming another problem that harried Crag. A
+government geologist wanted a complete description of Arzachel's rock
+structure. A space medicine doctor had a lot of questions about the
+working of the oxygen-carbon dioxide exchange system. Someone else--Crag
+was never quite sure who--wanted an exact description of how the Aztec
+had handled during letdown. In the end he got on the communicator and
+curtly asked for Gotch.
+
+"Keep these people off our backs until we land Drone Baker," he told
+him. "It's not headquarters for some damned quiz program."
+
+"You're big news," Gotch placated. "What you tell us will help with
+future rockets."
+
+"Like a mineral description of the terrain?"
+
+"Even that. But cheer up, Commander. The worst is yet to come." He broke
+off before Crag could snap a reply. Prochaska grinned at his
+discomfiture.
+
+"That's what comes of being famous," he said. "We're wheels."
+
+"A wheel on the moon." Crag looked questioningly at him. "Is that good?"
+
+"Damned if I know. I haven't been here long enough."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Crag was surprised to see how rapidly work in the tail section was
+progressing. Larkwell had loosened the giant engines and fuel tanks and
+pulled them from the ship with power from one of the rocket's servo
+motors. They lay on the dusty floor of the plain, incongruous in their
+new setting. He thought it a harbinger of things to come. A rocket
+garage on the floor of barren Arzachel. Four men attempting to build an
+empire from the hull of a space ship. In time it would be replaced by an
+airlock in a rill ... a military base ... a domed city. Pickering Field
+would become a transportation center, perhaps the hub of the Solar
+System's transportation empire. First single freighters, then ore
+trains, would travel the highways of space between earth mother and her
+long separated child. He sighed. The ore trains were a long way in the
+future.
+
+Larkwell crawled out from the cavern he had hollowed in the hull and
+stretched. "Time for chow," he grunted. His voice over the interphones
+sounded tired. Nagel followed him looking morose. He didn't acknowledge
+Crag's presence.
+
+At evening by earth clock they ate their scant fare. They were unusually
+silent. The Chief seemed weary from his long vigil on the scope.
+Larkwell's face was sweaty, smudged with grease. He ate quickly, with
+the air of a man preoccupied with weighty problems. Nagel was clearly
+bushed. Larkwell's fast pace had been too much for him. He wore a cross,
+irritable expression and avoided all conversation. Richter sat alone,
+seemingly unconcerned that he was a virtual prisoner, confined to one
+small corner of the cabin barely large enough to provide sleeping space.
+Crag had no feelings where he was concerned, neither resentment nor
+sympathy. The German was just a happenstance, a castaway in the war for
+Arzachel. Or, more probable, he thought, the war for the moon.
+
+After chow the men took turns shaving with the single razor. It had been
+supplied only because of the need to keep the oxygen ports in the
+helmets free and to keep the lip mikes clear.
+
+"Pure luxury," Prochaska said when his turn came. "Nothing's too good
+for the spaceman."
+
+"Amen," Crag agreed. "I hope the next crew is going to get a bar of
+soap."
+
+"For their sake I hope they pick something better than this crummy
+planet," Larkwell grunted.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Drone Baker had entered the moon's gravisphere at the precise time
+spelled out by the earth computers. Its speed had dropped to a mere two
+hundred miles per hour. It began to accelerate, pulled by the moon,
+moving in a vast trajectory calculated to put it into a closing orbit
+around the barren satellite. Prochaska picked it up and followed it on
+the scope. Telemeter control from Alpine fired the first braking
+rockets. The blast countered the moon's pull. Drone Baker was still a
+speck on the scope--a solitary traveler rushing toward them through the
+void.
+
+"Seems incredible it took us that long," Crag mused, studying the
+instrument panel. He reached over and activated the analog. Back on
+earth saucers with faces lifted to the skies were tracking the drone's
+flight. Their information was channeled into computer batteries,
+integrated, analyzed, and sent back into space. The wave train ended in
+a gridded scope--the analog Crag was viewing.
+
+"Seemed a damned lot shorter when we were up there," he speculated
+aloud.
+
+"That's one experience that really telescopes time," the Chief agreed.
+"I'd hate to have to sweat it out again."
+
+"When do we take over?"
+
+Prochaska glanced at the master chrono. "Not till 0810, give or take a
+few minutes. It depends on the final computations from Alpine."
+
+"Better catch some sleep," Crag suggested. "It's going to be touchy once
+we get hold of it."
+
+"We'll be damn lucky if we get it down in Arzachel."
+
+"We'd better." Crag grinned. "Muff this and we might as well take out
+lunar citizenship."
+
+"No thanks. Not interested."
+
+"What's the matter, Max, no pioneer spirit?"
+
+"Go to hell," Prochaska answered amiably.
+
+"Now, Mr. Prochaska, that's no way to speak to your commanding officer,"
+Crag reproved with mock severity.
+
+"Okay. Go to hell, Sir," he joked.
+
+Richter was a problem. Someone had to be awake at all times. Crag
+decided to break the crew into watches, and laid out a tentative
+schedule. He would take the first watch, Larkwell would relieve him at
+midnight, and Nagel would take over at 0300. That way Prochaska would
+get a full night's sleep. He would need steady nerves come morning. He
+outlined the schedule to the crew. Neither Larkwell nor Nagel appeared
+enthusiastic over the prospect of initiating a watch regime, but neither
+protested openly.
+
+When the others were asleep, Crag cut off the light to preserve battery
+power. He studied the lunar landscape out the port, thinking it must be
+the bleakest spot in the universe. He twisted his head and looked
+starward. The sky was a grab bag of suns. Off to one side giant Orion
+looked across the gulf of space at Taurus and the Pleiades, the seven
+daughters of Atlas.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 11
+
+
+"Commander!" Crag came to with a start Prochaska was leaning over him.
+Urgency was written across his face.
+
+"Come quick!" The Chief stepped back and motioned with his head toward
+the instrument corner. Crag sprang to his feet with a sense of alarm.
+Richter and Larkwell were still asleep. He glanced at the master chrono,
+0610, and followed him into the electronics corner. Nagel was standing
+by the scope, a frightened look on his face.
+
+"What's up?"
+
+"Nagel woke me at six. I came in to get ready for Drone Baker ...."
+
+"Get to the point," Crag snapped irritably.
+
+"Sabotage." He indicated under the panel. "All the wiring under the main
+console's been slashed."
+
+Crag felt a sense of dread. "How long will it take to make repairs?"
+
+"I don't know--don't know the full extent of the damage."
+
+"Find out," Crag barked. "How about the communicator?"
+
+"Haven't tried it," Prochaska admitted. "I woke you up as soon as I
+found what had happened." He reached over and turned a knob. After a few
+seconds a hum came from the console. "Works," he said.
+
+"See how quickly you can make repairs," Crag ordered. "We've got to hook
+onto the drone pretty quick."
+
+He swung impatiently toward Nagel. "Was anyone up during your watch? Did
+anyone go to the commode?"
+
+Nagel said defensively: "No, and I was awake all the time." Too
+defensive, Crag thought. But no one had stirred during his watch.
+Therefore, the sabotage had occurred between midnight and the time Nagel
+wakened Prochaska. But, wait ... Prochaska could have done the sabotage
+in the few moments he was at the console after Nagel woke him. It would
+have taken just one quick slash--the work of seconds. That left him in
+the same spot he'd been in with regard to the time bomb.
+
+He grated harshly at Nagel: "Wake Larkwell and get on with the airlock.
+And don't chatter about what's happened," he added.
+
+"I won't," Nagel promised nervously. He retreated as if glad to be rid
+of Crag's scrutiny.
+
+"A lousy mess," Prochaska grunted.
+
+Crag didn't answer.
+
+"If we don't solve this, we're going to wind up dead," he pursued.
+
+Crag turned and faced him. "It could be anybody. You ... me."
+
+"Yeah, I know." The Chief's face got a hard tight look. "Only it
+isn't ... it isn't me."
+
+"I don't know that," Crag countered.
+
+Prochaska said bitterly: "You'd better find out."
+
+"I will," Crag said shortly. He got on the communicator. It took several
+minutes to raise Alpine. He wasn't surprised when Gotch answered, and
+briefly related what had happened.
+
+"Is there any possibility of telemetering her all the way in?" He knew
+there wasn't, but he asked anyway.
+
+"Impossible."
+
+"Okay, well try and make it from here."
+
+The Colonel added a few comments. They were colorful but definitely not
+complimentary. He got the distinct impression the Colonel wasn't pleased
+with events on the moon. When his cold voice faded from the
+communicator, Crag tried the analog. The grid scope came to life but it
+was blank. Of course, he thought, Drone Baker was cut off from earth by
+the body of the moon. It could not be simulated on the analog until it
+came from behind the blind side where the earth saucers could track its
+flight.
+
+"Morning," Larkwell said, sticking his head around the curtain. "How
+about climbing into your suits so we can get out of this can?" Crag
+studied his face. It seemed void of any guile. Nagel stood nervously
+behind him.
+
+"Okay," Crag said shortly. He hated to have Prochaska lose the precious
+moments. They hurriedly donned their suits and Nagel decompressed the
+cabin, Larkwell opened the hatch and they left. Crag closed it after
+them and released fresh oxygen into the cabin. Richter took off his suit
+and returned to his corner. His eyes were bright with interest. He
+knows, Crag thought.
+
+At 0630 the communicator came to life. A voice at the other end gave
+Drone Baker's position and velocity as if nothing had happened. The
+drone, on the far side of the moon, was decelerating, dropping as servo
+mechanisms operating on timers activated its blasters. It was guided
+solely by the radio controlled servos, following a flight path
+previously determined by banks of computers. Everything was in apple-pie
+order, except for the snafu in Arzachel, Crag thought bitterly.
+
+Prochaska worked silently, swiftly. Crag watched with a helpless
+feeling. There wasn't room for both of them to work at one time. The
+Chief's head and arms literally filled the opening of the sabotaged
+console. Once he snapped for more light and Crag beamed a torch over his
+shoulder, fretting from the inaction.
+
+Sounds came through the rear bulkhead where Larkwell and Nagel were
+working in the tail section. Strange, Crag thought, to all appearances
+each crew member was a dedicated man. But one was a traitor. Which one?
+That's what he had to find out. Richter would have been the logical
+suspect were it not for the episode of the time bomb. No, it hadn't been
+the German. It was either the competent Prochaska, the sullen Nagel or
+the somehow cheerful but inscrutable Larkwell. But there should be a
+clue. If only he knew what to look for. Well, he'd find it. When he
+did ... He clenched his fists savagely.
+
+At 0715 Alpine simulated the drone on the analog. Fifteen minutes later
+Prochaska pulled his head from the console and asked Crag to try the
+scope. It worked.
+
+"Now if I can get those damn wires that control the steering and braking
+rockets ..." He dived back into the console. Crag looked at the chrono,
+then swung his eyes to the instruments. Drone Baker was coming in fast.
+The minutes ticked off. The communicator came to life with more data.
+Baker was approaching Ptolemaeus on its final leg. The voice cut off and
+Gotch came on.
+
+"We're ready to transfer control."
+
+Prochaska shook his head negatively without looking up.
+
+"What's the maximum deadline?" Crag asked.
+
+"0812, exactly three minutes, ten seconds," Gotch rasped. Prochaska
+moved his head to indicate maybe. The communicator was silent. Crag
+watched the master chrono.
+
+At 0812 Prochaska was still buried in the panel. Crag's dismay
+grew--dismay and a sense of guilt over the sabotage. Gotch had warned
+him against the possibility innumerable times. Now it had happened. The
+loss of Drone Able had been a bad blow; the loss of Baker could be
+fatal, not only to the success of their mission but to their survival.
+
+Survival meant an airlock and the ability to live on their scant
+supplies until Arzachel was equipped to handle incoming rockets on a
+better-than-chance basis. Well, one thing at a time, he thought. He
+suppressed the worry nagging at his mind. Just now it was Drone Baker's
+turn at bat.
+
+At 0813 Prochaska sprang to his feet and nodded. Crag barked an okay
+into the communicator while the Chief got his bearings on the
+instruments. Crag hoped the lost minute wouldn't be fatal. By 0814
+Prochaska had the drone under control. It was 90,000 feet over Alphons
+traveling at slightly better than a thousand miles per hour. He hit the
+braking rockets hard.
+
+"We're not going to make it," he gritted. He squinted his eyes. His face
+was set, grim.
+
+"Hold it with full braking power."
+
+"Not sufficient fuel allowance."
+
+"Then crash it as close as possible."
+
+Prochaska nodded and moved a control full over. The drone's braking
+rockets were blasting continuously. Crag studied the instruments. It was
+going to be close. By the instrument data they couldn't make it. Drone
+Baker seemed doomed. It was too high, moving too fast despite the lavish
+waste of braking power. His hand clenched the back of Prochaska's seat.
+He couldn't tear his eyes from the scope. Baker thundered down.
+
+Suddenly the drone was on them. It cleared the north rim of Arzachel at
+3,000 feet. Too high, Crag half-whispered. The difference lay in the
+lost minute. Prochaska pushed and held the controls. Crag pictured the
+rocket, bucking, vibrating, torn by the conflict of energies within its
+fragile body.
+
+Prochaska fingered the steering rockets and pushed the drone's nose
+upward. Crag saw it through the port. It rushed through space in a
+skidding fashion before it began to move upward from the face of the
+moon. Prochaska hit the braking jets with full power. Crag craned his
+head to follow its flight. Out of one corner of his eye he saw Nagel and
+Larkwell on the plain, their helmeted heads turned skyward. He scrunched
+his face hard against the port and caught the drone at the top of its
+climb.
+
+It was a slender needle with light glinting on its tail--the Sword of
+Damocles hanging above their heads. It hung ... suspended in space ...
+then began backing down, dropping stern first with flame and white vapor
+pouring from its tail jets. It came fast. Occasional spurts from radial
+jets around its nose kept its body perpendicular to the plain. Vapor
+from the trail fluffed out hiding the body of the rocket. The flame
+licked out while the rocket was still over a hundred feet in the air.
+
+Prochaska cursed softly. The rocket seemed riveted to the black sky for
+a fraction of a second before it began to fall. Faster ... faster. It
+smashed into the lunar surface, lost from sight.
+
+"Exit Baker," Prochaska said woodenly. Quietly Crag got on the
+communicator and reported to Gotch. There was a brief silence when he
+had finished.
+
+Finally Gotch said, "Drone Charlie will be launched on schedule. We'll
+have to reassess our logistics, though. Maybe we'd better knock off the
+idea of the airlock-in-the-gully idea and shoot along extra oxygen and
+supplies instead. How does the meteorite problem look?"
+
+"Lousy," said Crag irritably. "We've had a scary near miss. I wouldn't
+bet on being able to survive too long in the open. Again there was a
+silence.
+
+"You'll have to," Gotch said slowly, "unless you can salvage Baker's
+cargo."
+
+"We'll check that."
+
+"You might investigate the possibility of covering the Aztec with ash."
+
+"Sure ... sure," Crag broke in. "Good idea. I'll have the boys break out
+the road grader immediately."
+
+"Don't be facetious," Gotch reprimanded. "We have a problem to work
+out."
+
+"You're telling me!"
+
+"In the meantime, try and clean up that other situation."
+
+By "other situation" Crag knew he was referring to the sabotage. Sure,
+be an engineer, intelligence agent, spaceman and superman, all rolled
+into one. He wrinkled his face bitterly. Still he had to admire the
+Colonel's tenacity. He was a man determined to conquer the moon.
+
+"Will do," Crag said finally. "In the meantime we'll look Baker over.
+There might be some salvage."
+
+"Do that," the Colonel said crisply. He cut off.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 12
+
+
+"Max Prochaska was a real well-liked boy," Mrs. Arthur Bingham said
+firmly, "friendly with everyone in town. Of course, Vista was just a
+small place then," she added reminiscently. "Not like now, especially
+since the helicopter factory moved in. I do declare, a soul wouldn't
+recognize the place any longer, with all the housing tracts and the new
+supermarket--"
+
+"Certainly," the agent interjected, "but about Max Prochaska."
+
+"Yes, of course." Mrs. Bingham bit her lip reflectively. "My husband
+always said Max would go places. I wish he could have lived to see it."
+For just a moment her eyes brimmed wetly, then she blew her nose, wiping
+them in the process. The agent waited until she had composed herself.
+
+"Little Max--I always think of him as Little Max," she explained--"was
+smart and pleasant, real well liked at school. And he _always_ attended
+church." She stressed the word always.
+
+"Just think, now they say he's on the moon." Her eyes fixed the agent
+with interest "You'd think he'd get dizzy."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The agent almost enjoyed tracing Max Prochaska's history, it was a neat,
+wrapped-up job, one that moved through a regular sequence. Teacher ...
+minister ... family doctor ... druggist ... scoutmaster ... athletic
+director--all the ties a small-town boy makes and retains. Everything
+was clear-cut, compact. Records, deeds, acquaintances--all in one handy
+package. The memory of a man who grew up in a small town persisted,
+borne in the minds of people whose worlds were small. The Vista paper
+had obligingly carried Prochaska's biography, right on the front page,
+under the headline: VISTAN LANDS ON MOON. The leading local drugstore
+was featuring a Prochaska sundae and the Mayor of the town had
+proclaimed MAX PROCHASKA week.
+
+Clearly, Vista was proud of its native son, but not nearly as proud as
+the elderly couple who still tended a chicken ranch on the outskirts of
+town.
+
+"Max is a good boy," Mrs. Prochaska said simply. Her husband beamed
+agreement.
+
+On the surface, Prochaska's record seemed clean--a good student,
+well-liked, the usual array of girls, and nothing much in the way of
+peccadillos you could hang a hat on. The agent's last view of the town
+was a sign at the city limits: VISTA--THE HOME OF MAX PROCHASKA.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Drone Baker looked a complete loss. It had smashed tail down onto the
+ash covered plain about four miles to the southeast of the Aztec, off
+the eastern lip of the curved crescent Prochaska had dubbed "Backbone
+Ridge."
+
+Crag calculated that the positions of Bandit, the drone and their own
+rocket roughly formed an equilateral triangle on the floor of the
+crater. The lower section of the rocket was crushed, its hull split
+lengthwise.
+
+Crag and Larkwell studied the scene from a small knoll. The drone lay in
+a comparatively level area about thirty feet from the edge of a deep
+fissure, careened at a steep angle from the vertical. Only its tail
+imbedded into the ground kept it from toppling.
+
+"Might as well have a closer look," Larkwell said finally. Crag nodded
+and beckoned Richter, who was waiting at the bottom of the knoll. Since
+the sabotage incident he had split the crew into two sections which
+varied according to task. Richter was used by either section as needed.
+It wasn't an arrangement that Crag liked but he didn't feel it wise, or
+safe, to allow anyone the privilege of privacy.
+
+Richter circled the base of the knoll and met them. When they reached
+the rocket, Larkwell circled it several times, studying it from all
+angles.
+
+"We might come out pretty well," he said finally. His voice carried a
+dubious note. He lifted his head and contemplated the rocket again.
+"Maybe some of the cargo rode through."
+
+"We hope," Crag said.
+
+"I wouldn't bank too much on it."
+
+"Think we might get inside?"
+
+Larkwell said decisively: "Not this boy. Not until we pull the nose
+down. This baby's ready to topple."
+
+They were discussing their next move when Prochaska came in on the
+interphone: "Alpine wants the dope on Baker."
+
+Damn Alpine, Crag thought moodily. He contemplated the rocket. "Tell 'em
+it's still here." All at once he felt depressed. Strain, he told
+himself. Since blast-off his life had been a succession of climaxes,
+each a little rougher than the one preceding. Not that he was alone in
+his reactions. His mind switched to Nagel. The oxygen man had become
+sullen, irritable, almost completely withdrawn from the group. He was,
+Crag thought, a lonely, miserable man. Even Larkwell was beginning to
+show the affects of their struggle to survive. His normal easygoing
+manner was broken by periods of surliness. Only Prochaska had managed to
+maintain his calm approach to life, but the effects were telling
+physically. His face was a mask of parchment drawn tightly over bone,
+accentuating his tired hollow eyes.
+
+But Richter seemed to be thriving. Why not? He was a doomed man given a
+fresh reprieve on life, with no responsibilities to burden his
+existence. He was on a gravy train for the time being. Still, Richter
+was in an unenviable spot. Nagel was openly hostile toward him. His
+demeanor and looks were calculated to tell the German he was an
+undesirable intruder. Larkwell's attitude was one of avoidance. He
+simply acted as if the German were not on the moon. When in the course
+of work it became necessary to give Richter an order, he did it with a
+short surly bark. Prochaska concealed whatever feeling he had toward the
+German. No, he thought, Richter's lot wasn't easy.
+
+He tried to push the mood aside. It wouldn't push. He checked his
+oxygen, and decided to swing over to Bandit before returning. The
+sooner they got started on the salvage job, the better. He communicated
+his plan to the others.
+
+Larkwell protested, "Getting ready to open this baby's more important.
+We'll never get started on the airlock fooling around this god forsaken
+desert."
+
+"Well get to that, too," Crag promised, fighting to keep his temper
+under control. "By going from here we'll save a couple of miles over
+having to make a special trip."
+
+"Suit yourself," the construction boss said truculently.
+
+Crag nodded stiffly and started toward the enemy rocket, now lost to
+view behind intervening rock formations. By unspoken agreement Larkwell
+fell in at the rear, leaving Richter sandwiched between them. The German
+lived constantly under the scrutiny of one or another of the crew. Crag
+intended to keep it that way.
+
+The trip was more difficult than he had anticipated. Twice they were
+forced to detour around deep fissures. Before they had gone very far
+Crag's radiation counter came to life. He made a note of the spot
+thinking that later they would map the boundaries of the radioactive
+area. Once or twice he checked his course with Prochaska. His oxygen
+meter told him they would have to hurry when they topped a low knoll of
+glazed rock and came upon the ship.
+
+He stopped and turned, watching Richter. If he had expected any show of
+emotion he was disappointed. His face was impassive. It gave Crag the
+feeling that he wasn't really seeing the rocket--that he was looking far
+beyond, into nothingness. His eyes behind the face plate were vacuous
+pools.
+
+"We didn't have time to bury your companions," Crag said
+matter-of-factly. He indicated the rocket with a motion of his head and
+his voice turned cruel:
+
+"They're still in there."
+
+Richter's expression remained unchanged. "It doesn't make much
+difference here," he said finally. He turned and faced Crag.
+
+"One thing you should understand. They," he swept his arm toward Bandit,
+"were the military."
+
+"And you?"
+
+Richter said stiffly: "I am a scientist."
+
+"Who destroyed our drone thinking it was us." They faced each other
+across the bleak lunar desert. The German's eyes had become blue
+fires--azure coals leaping into flame.
+
+"It makes no difference what you think," he said after a moment. "My
+conscience is clear."
+
+"Nuts." Larkwell spat the word with disgust. Richter shrugged and turned
+back toward the rocket. Crag looked at him with varying emotions. One
+thing was sure, he thought. Richter was a cool customer. He had seen new
+depths in his blue eyes when they had faced each other. They were hard
+eyes, ablaze with ice ... the eyes of a fanatic--or a saint. He pushed
+the thought aside.
+
+Prochaska came in on the phones to inquire about their oxygen. Crag
+checked, chagrined to find that it was too low to spend more than a few
+minutes at the rocket. He opened the arms locker, thinking he would have
+to get rid of the weapons. They could be dangerous in the wrong hands.
+He had been unable to carry them back the first trip. Then he had
+regarded them as something totally useless on the moon. Now he wasn't so
+sure.
+
+He hurriedly studied the space cabin, seeking the information Gotch had
+requested. The floor and walls were heavily padded with some foam
+material--standard procedure to absorb vibration and attenuate noise.
+Aside from the controls, there were no projecting metal surfaces or hard
+corners ... the view ports were larger ... acceleration pads smaller,
+thicker. All in all, the cabins of the two rockets were quite similar.
+He was examining the contents of the supply cabinets when Larkwell
+reminded him of their diminishing oxygen supply. They hurriedly
+plundered Bandit of six oxygen cylinders and started back across
+Arzachel's desolate plain.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Crag arbitrarily broke the lunar day into twenty-four hour periods to
+correspond with earth time. Twelve hours were considered as "day," the
+remaining time as "night." He set up regular communication periods in
+order to schedule their activities. Under the arrangement Alpine came in
+promptly at exactly a half-hour before breakfast--0500 by earth
+clock--and again following the evening meal. Prochaska monitored the
+channel during the workday to cover possible urgent messages. The
+schedule allowed a twelve-hour work period during the day and a
+three-hour work period following the evening meal, from 7:00 to 10:00.
+The communication periods quickly deteriorated into routine sessions--a
+good omen to Crag--but Gotch kept his finger in the pie. Crag had the
+satisfaction of knowing he was available around the clock. Consequently,
+when the communicator came to life midway through the regular
+twelve-hour work period, he knew something was brewing--something he
+wasn't going to like. So did Prochaska. His voice, when he called Crag
+to the communicator, spelled trouble.
+
+Crag used the ear microphones for privacy and acknowledged the call with
+a distinct feeling of unease. As he had expected, the caller was Gotch.
+
+"Drone Charlie was launched at 0600," he told Crag. "We'll feed you the
+data on the regular channels." There was a brief silence. "This one's
+got to make it," he added significantly.
+
+Crag said stonily: "We'll do our best."
+
+"I know you will, Commander. I have absolutely no fear on that score.
+How's everything going?" The twangy voice across the abyss of space took
+on a solicitous tone that set his nerves on edge. Something's
+wrong--something bad, he thought. The Colonel sounded like a doctor
+asking a dying patient how he felt.
+
+"Okay, everything seems in hand. We've got the ship in good shape and
+Larkwell thinks we might fare pretty well with the drone. It might be in
+better shape than we first thought."
+
+"Good, good, glad to hear it. We need a silver lining once in a while,
+eh?"
+
+"Yeah, but I'm fairly certain you didn't call just to cheer me up," Crag
+said dryly. "What's on your mind?" The silence came again, a little
+longer this time.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 13
+
+
+"You're in trouble." Gotch spoke like a man carefully choosing his
+words. "Intelligence informs us that another rocket's been fired from
+east of the Caspian. BuNav's got a track on it."
+
+Crag waited.
+
+"There are two possibilities," Gotch continued. "The first and most
+logical assumption is that it's manned. We surmise that from the fact
+that their first manned rocket was successful--that is, as far as
+reaching the moon is concerned. The assumption is further borne out by
+its trajectory and rate of acceleration." His voice fell off.
+
+"And the second possibility?" Crag prompted.
+
+"Warhead," Gotch said succinctly. "Intelligence informs us that the
+enemy is prepared to blow Arzachel off the face of the moon if they fail
+to take it over. And they have failed--so far." Crag tossed the idea
+around in his mind.
+
+He said fretfully, "I doubt if they could put a warhead down on
+Arzachel. That takes some doing. Hell, it's tough enough to monitor one
+in from here, let alone smack from earth."
+
+"I think you're right, but they can try." Gotch's voice became brisk.
+"Here's the dope as we see it. We think the rocket contains a landing
+party for the purpose of establishing a moon base. In Arzachel,
+naturally, because that's where the lode is."
+
+"More to the point, you expect an attack on Pickering Base," Crag
+interjected.
+
+"Well, yes, I think that is a reasonable assumption...."
+
+Crag weighed the information. Gotch was probably right. A nuclear
+explosion on the moon would be detected on earth. That was the dangerous
+course--the shot that could usher in World War III and perhaps a new
+cave era.
+
+Attack by a landing party seemed more logical. They batted ideas back
+and forth. The Colonel suggested that just before the landing phase of
+Red Dog--the code name assigned the new rocket--Crag post armed guards
+at some point covering the Aztec.
+
+"Might as well get some use out of Bandit's automatic weapons," Gotch
+dryly concluded.
+
+Crag disagreed. He didn't think it likely that any attack would take the
+form of a simple armed assault. "That would give us time to get off a
+message," he argued. "They can't afford that."
+
+Gotch pointed out that neither could they launch a missile while still
+in space. "A homing weapon couldn't differentiate between Aztec, Baker
+and Bandit," he said.
+
+"But they'd still have to have some sure fire quick-kill method," Crag
+insisted.
+
+"You may be right. Have you a better plan?"
+
+Crag did, and outlined it in some detail. Gotch listened without comment
+until he had finished.
+
+"Could work," he said finally. "However, it's going to shoot your
+schedule, even if you could do it."
+
+"Why can't we?"
+
+"You're not supermen, Commander," he said tersely. "The psychiatrists
+here inform us that your crew--as individuals--should be near the
+breaking point. We know the cumulative strain. To be truthful with you,
+we've been getting gray hair over that prospect."
+
+"Nuts to the psychiatrists," Crag declared with a certainty he didn't
+feel. "Men don't break when their survival depends on their sanity."
+
+"No?" The single word came across the void, soft and low.
+
+"We can do it," Crag persisted.
+
+"All right, I agree with the plan. I think you're wrong but you're the
+Commander in the field." His voice was flat. "Good luck." He cut off
+abruptly.
+
+Crag looked at the silent panel for a moment. Another problem, another
+solution required. Maybe Gotch was right. Maybe they'd all wind up as
+candidates for the laughing academy--if they lived long enough. The
+thought didn't cheer him. Well, he'd better get moving. There was a lot
+to be done. He looked up and saw the question in Prochaska's eyes. Might
+as well tell him, he thought.
+
+He repeated the information Gotch had given, together with his plan.
+Prochaska listened quietly, nodding from time to time. When he finished,
+they discussed the pros and cons of Crag's proposed course of action.
+Prochaska thought it would work. In the end they decided to pursue the
+plan without telling the others the full story. It might be the breaking
+point, especially for Nagel, and they would be needing a good oxygen man
+in the coming days. Crag got on the interphone and called Larkwell, who
+was working in the tail section with the others.
+
+"Judging from what you've seen of Bandit, how long would it take to make
+it livable as crew quarters?"
+
+"Why?" he asked querulously.
+
+"I haven't time to go into that now," Crag said evenly. "Just give me
+your best estimate."
+
+"You can't make it livable. It's hot."
+
+"Not that hot. You've just got the radiation creeps. Let's have the
+estimate."
+
+Larkwell considered a moment. "There's quite a weld job on the hull,
+assuming we could get the necessary patch metal from Bandit. We'd have
+to haul one helluva lot of gear across that damned desert--"
+
+"How long?" Crag cut in.
+
+"Well, three days, at least. But that's a minimum figure."
+
+"That's the figure you'll have to meet," Crag promised grimly. "Start
+now. Use Nagel and Richter. Load up the gear you'll need and get in a
+trip before chow."
+
+"Now?" Larkwell's voice was incredulous. "What about winding up this job
+first? The airlock is damned important."
+
+"Drop it," Crag said briefly. There was silence at the other end of the
+interphone.
+
+"Okay," the construction boss grumbled finally.
+
+Crag suggested that Prochaska make the first trip with them to look over
+Bandit's electronic gear. He would need to know what repairs and
+modifications would be necessary to make it usable. The Chief was
+delighted. It would mark the first time he'd been out of the space cabin
+since the day of their landing.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Crag watched them leave through the port. It was impossible to tell the
+crew members apart in their bulky garments. The extra oxygen and the
+tools Larkwell had selected gave them an odd shambling gait, despite the
+low gravity. They plodded in single file, winding slowly across the
+plain. The thought struck him that they resembled grotesque life forms
+from some alien planet. For just a moment he felt sorry, and a trifle
+guilty, over assigning Nagel to the trip. The oxygen man was already in
+a state of perpetual fatigue. Still, he couldn't allow anyone the luxury
+of rest. Work was in the cards--grueling, slavish toil if they were to
+survive.
+
+It struck Crag that this was a moment of great risk. Of the four figures
+plodding toward Bandit, one was an enemy ... one a saboteur. Yet, what
+could either accomplish by striking now? Nothing! _Not while I live_, he
+thought. Strangely enough, Richter bothered him more than the saboteur.
+There was a quality about the man he couldn't decipher, an armor he
+couldn't penetrate. It occurred to him that, outwardly at least, Richter
+was much like Prochaska--quiet, calm, steady. He performed the tasks
+assigned him without question ... evinced no hostility, no resentment.
+He was seemingly oblivious to Nagel's barbs and Larkwell's occasional
+surly rebuffs. On the face of the record he was an asset--a work horse
+who performed far more labor than Nagel.
+
+He decided he couldn't write the German off as a factor to be
+continually weighed--weighed and watched. He was no ordinary man. Of
+that he was sure. Richter's presence on the enemy's first moon rocket
+was ample testimony of his stature. What were his thoughts? His plans?
+What fires burned behind his placid countenance? Crag wished he knew.
+One thing was certain. He could never lower his guard. Not for a second.
+
+He sighed and turned away from the viewport. A lot of data had piled up.
+He'd give Alpine a little work to do to get Gotch off his neck. He
+reached for the communicator thinking of Ann. Probably got someone else
+lined up by now, he thought sourly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Work on Bandit progressed slowly. Nagel dragged through each successive
+work shift on the verge of exhaustion. Crag expected him to collapse
+momentarily. His disintegration took him further and further from the
+group. He ate silently, with eyes averted. He didn't protest the
+arduous hours, but the amount of work he performed was negligible.
+Larkwell maintained his stamina but had become more quiet in the
+process. He seldom smiled ... never joked. Occasionally he was truculent
+or derisive, referring to Bandit as the "Commander's hot box."
+
+Richter remained impersonal and aloof, but performed his assigned tasks
+without apparent resentment. Crag noticed that he stayed as far from
+Larkwell as possible, perhaps fearing violence from the burly
+construction boss. Prochaska, alone, maintained a cheerful exterior--for
+which Crag was thankful.
+
+He was watching them now--the evening of the last day of Larkwell's
+three-day estimate--returning from the Bandit. The four figures were
+strung out over half a mile. He regarded that as a bad omen. They no
+longer worked as a crew, but as separate individuals, each in his
+separate world, with exception of Prochaska. He turned away from the
+port with the familiar feeling that time was running out, and mentally
+reviewed what remained to be done.
+
+Making Bandit habitable was a must. There still remained the arduous
+task of transferring their belongings and gear to Bandit. Drone Baker
+had to be toppled and her cargo salvaged. Then there was Drone Charlie,
+at present just a minute speck somewhere in the great void between earth
+and her moon; but in somewhat less than forty-eight hours it would
+represent tons of metal hurtling over the rim of Arzachel. This time
+they couldn't fumble the ball. The building of the airlock in the rill
+loomed in the immediate future--an oppressive shadow that caused him no
+end of worry. There were other problems, too--like the item of Red
+Dog ... the possible battle for control of the moon.
+
+Red Dog, in particular, had become the prime shadow darkening Arzachel's
+ashy plains. He thought about the emotional deterioration which had laid
+an iron grip over the expedition and wondered if they could hang on
+through the rough days ahead. All in all, the task of colonizing the
+moon appeared an extremely formidable one. He shook off his
+apprehensions and began planning his next step.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+That evening Crag knocked off the usual three hour work period following
+evening chow. Nagel tumbled onto his pad and was asleep almost
+instantly. His breathing was a harsh rasp. At Crag's suggestion
+Prochaska took the watch until midnight. Crag stood guard the remainder
+of the night to allow Nagel and Larkwell a full night's rest.
+
+While the others slept, Crag brooded at the port. Once he ran his hand
+over his face, surprised at the hardness. All bone and no flesh, he
+thought. He looked toward the north wall of Arzachel.
+
+In a few short hours Drone Charlie would come blazing over the rim, and
+Red Dog snapping at its heels.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 14
+
+
+"Adam Crag was not a God-fearing man," the minister stated. His tone
+implied that Crag had been just the opposite. "Not a bit like his
+parents. The best family guidance in the world, yet he quit Sunday
+school almost before he got started. I doubt that he's ever been to
+church since."
+
+He looked archly at the agent. "Perhaps a godless world like the moon is
+just retribution."
+
+A garage mechanic, a junk dealer and the proprietor of a tool shop had a
+lot to say about Adam Crag. So did the owner of a small private
+airport. They remembered him as a boy with an insatiable appetite for
+tearing cars apart and converting them to what the junk dealer termed
+"supersonic jalopies."
+
+Many people in El Cajon remembered Adam Crag. Strangely enough, his
+teachers all the way back through grade school had little difficulty in
+recalling his antics and attitudes. An elementary teacher explained it
+by saying, "He was that kind of a boy."
+
+The family doctor had the most to say about Adam. He had long since
+retired, a placid seventyish man who had elected to pass his last years
+in the same house, in an older section of the town, in which he'd been
+born.
+
+He sat swinging and talking, reminiscing about "the growing up of young
+Adam," as he put it. The agent had made himself at home on the front
+steps, listening. The doctor's comments were little short of being an
+eulogy.
+
+He finished and was silent, tapping a black briar pipe against his hand
+while he contemplated the agent with eyes which had long since ceased to
+see.
+
+"One other thing," he added finally. "Adam was sure a heller with the
+girls."
+
+The agent started to comment that Crag's dossier looked like the roll
+call of a girl's dormitory but refrained. He didn't want to prejudice
+the testimony.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Zero hour on the plains of Arzachel. The sun, an intolerably brilliant
+ball pasted against the ebony sky, had started its drop toward the
+horizon. The shadows on the plain were lengthening, harbingers of the
+bitter two-weeks-long night to come. They crept out from the sheer wall
+of the crater, reaching to engulf Pickering Base with icy fingers.
+
+Crag and Prochaska were alone, now, in the stripped cabin of the Aztec.
+Nagel and Richter, under Larkwell's command, had departed for Bandit an
+hour earlier with the last of their supplies. Crag disliked splitting
+the crew but saw no alternative. He had to gamble. The element of
+certainty, the ability to predict, the expectations of logic--all these
+had vanished, swept away by the vagaries of chance. They could do only
+so much. Beyond that their fate was pawn to the chaotic cross fires of
+human elements pitted against the architecture of the cosmos. They were
+puppets in the last lottery of probability.
+
+Prochaska broke the silence: "It's going to be close."
+
+Crag's eyes remained riveted to the instruments. Drone Charlie and Red
+Dog were plunging through space separated by a scant half-hour's flight
+time. Despite the drone's long launch lead, the gap between the two
+rockets had been narrowed to a perilous point. Drone Charlie was
+decelerating rapidly, her braking rockets flaring spasmodically to slow
+her headlong flight.
+
+"We'd better get into our suits," Crag said finally. "We want to get out
+of this baby the second Charlie lets down."
+
+Prochaska nodded. They left their suits unpressurized for the time being
+to allow full mobility. In the moments ahead Prochaska, in particular,
+couldn't afford to be hampered by the rigidity the suit possessed when
+under pressure.
+
+They turned back to the control panel. Charlie was hurtling over
+Alphons, dropping toward the bleak lunar landscape with incredible
+speed. The mechanical voice from Alpine droned a stream of data. There
+was a rapid exchange of information between Prochaska and Alpine. At its
+conclusion he began taking over control of the drone. Crag watched
+tensely. Prochaska's fingers, even though encased in the heavy suit
+material, moved with certainty. In a little while he spoke without
+looking up.
+
+"Got it," he said laconically. He studied the instruments, then his
+fingers sought the buttons controlling Charlie's forward braking
+rockets.
+
+Crag thought: _This is it._ Within scant moments the drone had covered
+the sky over the tangled land lying between Alphons and Arzachel. It
+swept over the brimming cliffs at a scant two thousand feet. He saw the
+rocket through the forward ports. White vapor flared from its nose
+rockets. The Chief had it under full deceleration. The cloud of vapor
+covered its body. Prochaska moved the steering control and the rocket
+slanted upward at ever-increasing angle of climb. Crag strained his neck
+to keep it in sight. He thought its rate of climb was too rapid but
+Prochaska seemed unperturbed. His calm approach to the problem of
+landing the drone gave Crag renewed confidence.
+
+All at once, it seemed, Drone Charlie was hanging high in the sky, a
+tapered needle miraculously suspended in the heavens. Then it began
+dropping ... dropping. Bursts of smoke and white vapor shot from its
+tail jets, becoming continuous as the rocket hurtled toward the plain.
+The drone was lost to sight in its own clouds, but he charted its
+progress by the vapor spurts at its lower edge. Prochaska was draining
+the tail braking jets of every ounce of energy. Suddenly the rocket gave
+the illusion of hanging in mid-air. The gap between it and the stark
+terrain below seemed to have stopped closing. Crag half expected the
+blasting stern tubes to begin pushing the drone back into the sky.
+But ... no! It was moving down again, slowly.
+
+Prochaska moved another control. A servo-mechanism within the rocket
+stirred to life and a spidery metal network moved out from its tail
+housing. The drone dropped steadily, ever slower, and finally settled.
+The shock-absorbing frame folded, was crushed. At the same instant
+Prochaska silenced its rockets. It settled down, its tail tubes pushed
+into the plain's powdery ash scarcely a mile from the Aztec.
+
+"Perfect." Prochaska sounded pleased with himself. His thin face broke
+into a satisfied smile.
+
+"Nice going," Crag agreed. "Now let's get out of this trap."
+
+His eyes lingered for an instant on the analog. Red Dog had already
+cleared Ptolemaeus. He snapped his face plate shut, clicked on the
+interphone and turned the oxygen valve. His suit began to swell and grow
+rigid against his body. When they were pressurized, he opened the hatch
+and they clambered out onto the plain. He closed the hatch behind them
+and struck off in the direction of Bandit with the Chief at his heels.
+
+They moved as rapidly as possible. Their feet in the heavy insulated
+space boots kicked up small fountains of dust which dropped as quickly
+as they rose. From time to time Crag looked back toward the brimming
+cliffs. Prochaska plodded head down. His quickened breathing in the
+interphones sounded harsh to Crag. Plainly the long hours of monitoring
+the Aztec's instruments had made him soft. The microphone in his helmet
+came to life. It was Larkwell.
+
+"Red Dog's cleared the rim," he told them.
+
+Crag glanced back. His eyes caught the wispish trail of white vapor high
+above the cliffs before he saw the rocket itself. It was already in
+vertical attitude, letting down amid a cloud of white vapor from its
+stern braking rockets.
+
+"All hands disconnect their interphones," he commanded. "From here on
+out we operate in silence." The Red Dog interphone system might or might
+not be on the same band they used. He wasn't about to take that risk.
+
+"Okay," Larkwell acknowledged. "We're shutting off."
+
+Crag remembered that the German's interphones were still connected. Slip
+one. He decided to leave his own open--at least he'd be forewarned if
+anyone tried to alert the Red Dog crew. He turned back toward the
+rocket. Red Dog was dropping about two or three miles from the Aztec in
+the direction of the wrecked Baker.
+
+White smoke and flame poured from its stern tubes. It slowed visibly as
+it neared the lunar surface. He thought that a plumb bob dropped through
+the long axis of the rocket would form a right angle with the surface
+of Arzachel. Pilot's good, he thought. He watched until it touched down
+teetering on its stern tubes for a moment before coming to rest; then he
+turned and hurried to overtake Prochaska.
+
+The Chief's face behind his mask was covered with perspiration. He
+panted heavily. Crag beckoned him to follow and moved behind a low swale
+of rock where they would be safe from detection. The nose of Bandit
+jutted into the sky about a mile ahead of them. He motioned toward it,
+gesturing for Prochaska to go on. The Chief nodded understanding and
+struck off.
+
+Crag turned and began climbing a low rocky ridge that now lay between
+him and Red Dog. He stopped just below its crest and searched for a safe
+vantage point. To his right a serrated rock structure extended up over
+the backbone of the ridge. He angled toward it, then followed the
+outcropping to a point where he could see the plain beyond. Red Dog had
+its tail planted in the ash about three miles distant.
+
+Minute figures milled at its base, small blobs of movement against the
+crater floor. No sounds broke the silence of Crag's open interphones. He
+took this as a sign that the Red Dog sets operated on a different band.
+But he couldn't be sure. The tremendous advantage of having
+communication with his own men must be discarded.
+
+His vigil was rewarded a few moments later when the blobs around Red
+Dog's base began moving in the direction of the Aztec. It struck him
+that they couldn't see the rocket from their present position due to
+small intervening hillocks, although both Baker and Charlie were clearly
+visible. He decided the Aztec's horizontal position had tipped them to
+its identity while they were still space-borne. One of the Red Dog
+crewmen, obviously the leader, drew ahead of his companions. The other
+two seemed to be struggling with some object they carried between them.
+They moved close together, halting from time to time. He returned his
+gaze to the rocket, conjecturing that another crewman would have
+remained behind. If so, he was in the space cabin. The ship seemed
+lifeless. The landing party approached a small ridge overlooking the
+Aztec, bringing them closer to his lookout.
+
+He saw that the two men following the leader were having difficulty with
+their burden. They walked slowly, uncertainly, pausing from time to
+time. The lead man started up the rocky knoll overlooking the Aztec. His
+movements were slow, wary. He crouched near the top of the ridge,
+scanning the plain beyond before waving to his companions to follow. The
+gesture told Crag that their interphones were disconnected. The crewmen
+near the base of the knoll started climbing, moving with extreme
+difficulty. He watched them, wondering, until they reached the leader.
+They stood for a moment scouting the plain, then two of the men crouched
+over the burden they had lugged up the knoll.
+
+A weapon, Crag guessed. He tried to discern its shape but failed. A few
+moments later one of the men stepped back. A puff of white rose from the
+knoll. A trail of vapor shot toward the Aztec. A portable rocket
+launcher! His eyes tracked the missile's flight. The vapor trail
+terminated at its target. An instant later the Aztec disintegrated.
+Black chunks of the rocket hurtled into the lunar skies, becoming lost
+to sight. Within seconds only a jagged few feet of broken torn metal
+marked the site of man's first successful landing on the moon. _Wow,
+what a weapon_, he thought. It didn't merely push a hole in the Aztec.
+It disintegrated it, completely. That was one for Gotch. He filed the
+thought away and watched.
+
+The figures on the knoll searched the scene for a long time. Finally
+they turned and started back, carrying the rocket launcher with them.
+The act of saving the weapon told him that Red Dog carried more rockets
+than just the single shot fired--a disconcerting thought.
+
+He cautiously withdrew from his post and picked his way down the ridge
+toward Bandit, moving as rapidly as the rough terrain permitted.
+Everything now depended on the next move of the Red Dog's crew, he
+thought. One thing was certain--there would be no quarter shown. The
+ruthless destruction of the Aztec had set the pattern for the coming
+battle of Arzachel. It was a declaration of war with all rules of human
+warfare discarded. Well, that was okay with him.
+
+He was breathing heavily by the time he reached a spot overlooking
+Bandit. Nagel had decompressed the cabin and they were waiting for him
+with the hatch open. He crossed the clearing and a moment later was in
+the space cabin. He watched the gauge until it was safe to cut off his
+suit pressure and open his face plate. He looked at Richter; his face
+was blank. Tersely, then, he related what had happened.
+
+"I sort of expected that," Prochaska said quietly when he had finished.
+"It was the logical way."
+
+"Logical to attempt to murder men?" Nagel asked bitterly.
+
+"Entirely logical," Crag interjected. "The stakes are too big for a few
+human lives to matter. At least we've been warned."
+
+He turned to Prochaska. "Disconnect Richter's mikes until this show's
+over."
+
+The Chief nodded. Richter stood quietly by while his lip microphone was
+disconnected and withdrawn from the helmet. Nagel's face showed
+satisfaction at the act, but Larkwell's expression was wooden.
+
+Crag said, "Defense of Bandit will be under Prochaska's command." He
+looked grimly at his second-in-command. "Your fort has one automatic
+rifle. Make it count if you have to use it." The Chief nodded.
+
+Larkwell spoke up, "How about you?"
+
+"I'll be scouting with the other automatic rifle. Stay in your suits and
+keep ready. If they start to bring up the rocket launcher I'll signal.
+If that happens you'll have to get out of here, pronto. You'd better
+check your oxygen," he added as an afterthought.
+
+"If they think we're dead ducks they won't be toting the launcher,"
+Prochaska said.
+
+"We hope." Crag exchanged his oxygen cylinder for a fresh one, then
+checked one of the automatic rifles, slipping two extra clips in his
+belt. On second thought he hooked a spare oxygen cylinder to the back
+straps. He nodded to Nagel, snapped his face plate shut and pressurized
+his suit. When the cabin was decompressed, he opened the hatch, scanning
+the knoll carefully before descending to the plain. He struck off toward
+the ridge overlooking Red Dog. The ground on this side of the spur was
+fairly flat and he made good time, but was panting heavily by the time
+he reached his lookout point on the crest.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 15
+
+
+Crag sighted the Red Dog party immediately--three figures plodding in
+single file toward Drone Baker. He saw with satisfaction that they had
+discarded the rocket launcher. He took that as a sign they believed the
+Aztec crew dead. He found a halfway comfortable sitting position, and
+settled back to await developments.
+
+The distant figures moved across the plain with maddening slowness. From
+time to time he returned his eyes to the enemy rocket. It showed no
+signs of life. Once he debated taking the gamble of trying to reach it,
+but as quickly discarded the idea. Caught on the open plain and he'd be
+a gone gosling.
+
+He waited.
+
+After what seemed a long while, the invaders reached a point overlooking
+Drone Baker. One of the figures remained on a small rise overlooking the
+drone while the other two separated and approached it from different
+directions. The tactic disquieted him. It indicated that the newcomers
+were not entirely convinced that they were alone in Crater Arzachel.
+
+After another interminably long time, the two figures approaching the
+rocket met at its base. They walked around the rocket several times,
+then struck out, this time toward Drone Charlie. Their companion left
+his lookout point and cut across the plain to join them.
+
+Crag squirmed uncomfortably. He was tired and hungry; his muscles ached
+from the constriction of the suit. His body was hot and clammy, and
+perspiration from his brow stung his eyes. He sighed, wishing he had a
+cigarette. Strange, he hadn't smoked in over a year but all at once the
+need for tobacco seemed overwhelming. He pushed the thought aside.
+
+The invaders were strung out in single file, moving in a direction which
+brought them closer to his position. He shifted to a point below the
+crest, moving slowly to avoid detection. Their path crossed his field of
+vision at a distance of about half a mile. At the closest point he saw
+they carried rifles in shoulder slings. He took this as another
+indication they suspected the presence of survivors. The invaders
+stopped and rested at a point almost opposite him. He fidgeted, trying
+to get his body into a more comfortable position.
+
+Finally they resumed their trek. Before they reached the drone they
+halted. One man remained in the cover of a spur of rock while the other
+two separated and advanced on the drone from different directions. Crag
+cursed under his breath. They certainly weren't going to be sitting
+ducks. Perhaps it was just a precaution. Simply good infantry tactics,
+he told himself, but it still raised a complication.
+
+He waited. The two invaders closed on the drone, meeting at its base.
+They evidently decided it was abandoned, for they left within a few
+minutes walking to join their waiting companion. After a short huddle
+they struck out in the direction of Bandit. This was the move he had
+waited for.
+
+He withdrew to the lee side of the ridge and picked his way toward
+Bandit as rapidly as possible, taking care not to brush against the
+sharp slivers of rock. He drew near the rocket, thinking that the open
+hatch would be a dead giveaway. Still, there was no alternative. A fort
+without a gunport was no fort at all. He climbed to a spot close to the
+crest of the ridge and peered back in the direction of the invaders,
+startled to find they were nearer than he had supposed. He hastily
+withdrew his head, deciding it was too late to warn the others to
+abandon the rocket. If the invaders climbed straight up the opposite
+side of the ridge, they conceivably could catch his crew on the open
+plain. That made another complication.
+
+He scanned the ridge. Off to his right a series of granite spurs jutted
+from the base rock in finger formation. He picked his way toward them,
+then descended until he found shelter between two rock outcroppings
+which gave him a clear view of Bandit. He checked his automatic rifle,
+moving the control lever to the semi-automatic position. The black
+rectangle that marked Bandit's hatch seemed lifeless.
+
+He waited.
+
+Long minutes passed. He cursed the eternal silence of the moon which
+robbed him of the use of his ears. A cannon could fire within an inch of
+his back and he'd never know it, he thought. He moved his head slightly
+forward from time to time in an effort to see the slope behind him.
+Nothing happened. His body itched intolerably from perspiration. He
+readjusted the suit temperature setting, gaining a slight respite from
+the heat. All at once he caught movement out of the corner of his face
+plate and involuntarily jerked his head back. He waited a moment, aware
+that his heart was pounding heavily, then cautiously moved forward. One
+of the invaders was picking his way down the slope in a path that would
+take him within thirty yards of his position. The man moved slowly,
+half-crouched, keeping his rifle cradled across his arm.
+
+They know, he thought. The open hatch was the giveaway. He anxiously
+searched Bandit. No sign of life was visible. He gave silent thanks that
+the invaders had not lugged their rocket launcher with them. Prochaska,
+he knew, would be watching, crouched in the shadow of the hatch opening
+behind the heavy automatic rifle. He estimated the distance between the
+base of the slope and the rocket at 400 yards--close enough for
+Prochaska to pick off anyone who ventured onto the plain.
+
+He waited while the invader passed abreast of him and descended to the
+base of the plain, taking cover in the rocks. He halted there and looked
+back. A few moments later Crag saw the second of the invaders moving
+down the slope about a hundred yards beyond his companion. He, too,
+stopped near the base of the rocks. Where was the third man? The same
+technique they used before, Crag decided. He would be covering his
+companions' advance from the ridge. That made it more difficult.
+
+He studied the two men at the edge of the plain. It looked like a
+stalemate. They either had to advance or retreat. Their time was
+governed by oxygen. If they advanced, they'd be dead pigeons. Prochaska
+couldn't miss if they chose to cross the clearing. As it was, neither
+side could get a clear shot at the distance separating them, although
+the invaders could pour a stream of shells into the open hatch. But
+Prochaska would be aware of that danger and would have taken refuge to
+one side of the opening, he decided. There was another complication.
+The shells were heavy enough to perforate the rocket. Well, he'd worry
+about that later. He moved his head for a better view of the invaders.
+
+The man nearest him had gotten into a prone position and was doing
+something with the end of his rifle. Crag watched, puzzled. Suddenly the
+man brought the rifle to his shoulder, and he saw that the end of the
+muzzle was bulged. Rifle grenade! Damn, they'd brought a regular
+arsenal. If he managed to place one in the open hatch, the Bandit crew
+was doomed. Heedless of the other two Red Dog crewmen, he stepped out
+between the shoulders of rock to gain freedom of movement and snapped
+his own weapon to his shoulder. He had trouble fitting his finger into
+the trigger guard. The enemy was spraddled on his stomach, legs apart,
+adjusting his body to steady his weapon.
+
+Crag moved his weapon up, bringing the prone man squarely into his
+sights. He squeezed the trigger, feeling the weapon jump against his
+padded shoulder, and leaped back into the protective cover of rock.
+Something struck his face plate. Splinter of rock, he thought. The
+watcher on the ridge hadn't been asleep. He dropped to his knees and
+crawled between the rock spurs to gain a new position. The sharp needle
+fragments under his hands and knees troubled him. One small rip and he'd
+be the late Adam Crag. He finally reached a place where he could see the
+lower end of the ridge.
+
+The man he'd shot was a motionless blob on the rocky floor, his arms and
+legs pulled up in a grotesque fetal position. The vulnerability of human
+life on the moon struck Crag forcibly. A bullet hole anywhere meant
+sudden violent death. A hit on the finger was as fatal as a shot through
+the heart. Once air pressure in a suit was lost a man was dead--horribly
+dying within seconds. A pinhole in the suit was enough to do it. His
+eyes searched for the dead man's companions. The ridge and plain seemed
+utterly lifeless. Bandit was a black canted monolith rising above the
+plain, seeming to symbolize the utter desolation and silence of Crater
+Arzachel. For a moment he was fascinated. The very scene portended
+death. It was an eery feeling. He shook it off and waited. He was
+finally rewarded by movement. A portion of rock near the edge of the
+plain seemed to rise--took shape. The dead man's companion had risen to
+a kneeling position, holding his rifle to his shoulder.
+
+Crag raised his gun, wondering if he could hold the man in his sights. A
+hundred and fifty yards to a rifleman clothed in a cumbersome space suit
+seemed a long way. Before he could pull the trigger, the man flung his
+arms outward, clawing at his throat for an instant before slumping to
+the rocks. It took Crag a second to comprehend what had happened.
+Prochaska had been ready.
+
+A figure suddenly filled the dark rectangle of Bandit, pointing toward
+the ridge behind Crag. He apparently was trying to tell him something.
+Crag scanned the ridge. It seemed deserted. He turned toward Bandit and
+motioned toward his faceplate. The other understood. His interphones
+crackled to life. Prochaska's voice was welcome.
+
+"I see him," he broke in. "He's moving up the slope to your right,
+trying to reach the top of the ridge. Too far for a shot," he added.
+
+Crag scrambled into a clearing and scanned the ridge, just in time to
+see a figure disappear over the skyline. He started up the slope in a
+beeline for the crest. If he could reach it in time, he might prevent
+the sniper from crossing the open plain which lay between the ridge and
+Red Dog. Cops and robbers, he thought. Another childhood game had
+suddenly been recreated, this time on the bleak plain of an airless
+alien crater 240,000 miles from the sunny Southern California lands of
+his youth.
+
+Crag reached the ridge. The plain on the other side seemed devoid of
+life. In the distance the squat needle that was Red Dog jutted above
+the ashy plain, an incongruous human artifact lost on the wastelands of
+the moon. Only its symmetry distinguished it from the jagged monolithic
+structures that dotted this end of the crater floor. He searched the
+slope. Movement far down the knoll to his right caught his eye. The
+fugitive was trying to reach a point beyond range of Crag's weapon
+before cutting across the plain. He studied the terrain. Far ahead and
+to the left of the invader the crater floor became broken by bizarre
+rock formations of Backbone Ridge--a great half-circle which arced back
+toward Red Dog. He guessed that the fantastic land ahead was the
+fugitive's goal.
+
+He cut recklessly down the opposite slope and gained the floor of the
+crater before turning in the direction he had last seen the invader. He
+cursed himself for having lost sight of him. Momentarily, he slowed his
+pace, thinking he was ripe for a bushwhacking job. His eyes roved the
+terrain. No movement, no sign of his quarry. He moved quickly, but
+warily, attempting to search every inch of the twisted rock formations
+covering the slope ahead. His eye detected movement off to one side. At
+the same instant a warning sounded in his brain and he flung himself
+downward and to the side, hitting the rough ground with a sickening
+thud. He sensed that the action had saved his life. He crawled between
+some rock outcroppings, hugging the ground until he reached a vantage
+point overlooking the area ahead. He waited, trying to search the slope
+without exposing his position. Minutes passed.
+
+He tossed his head restlessly. His eyes roved the plain, searching,
+attempting to discern movement. No movement--only a world of still
+life-forms. The plain--its rocks and rills--stretched before him, barren
+and endless. Strange, he thought, there should be vultures in the sky.
+And on the plain creosote bushes, purple sage, cactus ... coyotes and
+rattlesnakes.
+
+But ... no! This was an other-world desert, one spawned in the fires of
+hell--a never-never land of scalding heat and unbelievable cold. He
+thought it was like a painting by some mad artist. First he had sketched
+in the plain with infinite care--a white-black, monotonous, unbroken
+expanse. Afterward he had splashed in the rocks, painting with wild
+abandon, heedless of design, form or structure, until the plain was a
+hodgepodge of bizarre formations. They towered, squatted, pierced the
+sky, crawled along the plain like giant serpents--an orgy in rock
+without rhyme or reason. Somewhere in the lithic jungle his quarry
+waited. He would flush him out.
+
+He thought that the sniper must be getting low on oxygen. He couldn't
+afford to waste time. He had to reach Red Dog soon--if he were to live.
+Crag checked his oxygen meter and began moving forward, conscious that
+the chase would be governed by his oxygen supply. He'd have to remember
+that.
+
+He reached a clearing on the slope just as the sniper disappeared into
+the rock shadows on the opposite side. He hesitated. Would the pursued
+man be waiting ... covering the trail behind him? He decided not to
+chance crossing it and began skirting around its edge, fretting at the
+minutes wasted. His earphones crackled and Prochaska's voice came, a
+warning through the vacuum:
+
+"Nagel says your oxygen must be low."
+
+He glanced at the indicator on his cylinder. Still safe. He studied the
+rocks ahead and told Prochaska:
+
+"I've got to keep this baby from reaching Red Dog."
+
+"Watch yourself. Don't go beyond the point of no return." Prochaska's
+voice held concern.
+
+"Stop worrying."
+
+Crag pushed around the edge of the clearing with reckless haste. It was
+hard going and he was panting heavily long before he reached the spot
+where he had last seen the sniper. He paused to catch his breath. The
+slope fell away beneath him, a miniature kingdom of jagged needle-sharp
+rock. There was no sign of the fugitive. The plain, too, was devoid of
+life. He descended to the edge of the clearing and picked his way
+through the debris of some eon-old geologic catastrophe. Ahead and to
+the left of the ridge, the plain was broken by shallow rills and weird
+rock outcroppings. Farther out Backbone Ridge began as low mounds of
+stone, becoming twisted black stalagmites hunched incongruously against
+the floor of the crater, ending as jagged sharp needles of rock curving
+over the plain in a huge arc.
+
+A moment later he caught sight of his quarry. The invader had cut down
+to the edge of the plain, abandoning the protection of the ridge, making
+a beeline for the nearest rock extrusion on the floor of the crater. Too
+far away for a shot. Crag cursed and made a quick judgment, deciding to
+risk the open terrain in hopes of gaining shelter before the sniper was
+aware of his strategy.
+
+He abandoned the protection of the slope and struck out in a straight
+line toward the distant mounds on the floor of the crater, keeping his
+eyes on the fugitive. They raced across the clearing in parallel paths,
+several hundred yards apart. The sniper had almost reached the first
+rocks when he glanced back. He saw Crag and put on an extra burst of
+speed, reaching the first rocks while Crag was still a hundred yards
+from the nearest mound. Crag dropped to the ground, thankful that it was
+slightly uneven. At best he'd make a poor target. He crawled, keeping
+his body low, tossing his head in an effort to shake the perspiration
+from his eyes.
+
+"How you doing, skipper?" It was Prochaska. Lousy, Crag thought. He
+briefed him without slowing his pace.
+
+The ashy plain just in front of him spurted in little fountains of white
+dust. He dropped flat on his belly with a gasp.
+
+"You all right?"
+
+"Okay," Crag gritted. "This boy's just using me for target practice."
+Prochaska's voice became alarmed. He urged him to retreat.
+
+"We can get them some other way," he said.
+
+"Not if they once get that launcher in operation. I'm moving on." There
+was a moment of silence.
+
+"Okay, skipper, but watch yourself." His voice was reluctant. "And watch
+your oxygen."
+
+"Roger." He checked his gauge and hurriedly switched to the second
+cylinder. Now he was on the last one. The trick would be to stretch his
+oxygen out until the chase was ended--until the man ahead was a corpse.
+
+He clung to the floor of the crater, searching for shelter. The ground
+rose slightly to his right. He crawled toward the rise, noting that the
+terrain crested high enough to cut his view of the base of the rocks.
+Satisfied that he was no longer visible, he began inching his way toward
+the nearest mounds.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 16
+
+
+Crag studied the scene. He lay at one end of the great crescent of rock
+forming Backbone Ridge, the other end of which ended about half a mile
+from Red Dog. The floor of the crater between the rocket and the nearest
+rock formations was fairly level and unbroken. The arced formation
+itself was a veritable jungle of rocks of every type--gnarled, twisted
+rock that hugged the ground, jutting black pinnacles piercing the sky,
+bizarre bubble formations which appeared like weird ebony eskimo cities,
+and great fantastic ledges which extruded from the earth at varying
+angles, forming black caves against their bases.
+
+Whole armies could hide there, he thought. Only the fugitive couldn't
+hide. Oxygen was still the paramount issue. He'd have to thread his way
+through the terrible rock jungle to the distant tip of the crescent,
+then plunge across the open plain to the rocket if he hoped to survive.
+The distance between the horns of the crescent appeared about three
+miles. He pondered it thoughtfully, then got on the interphones and
+outlined his plan to Prochaska.
+
+"Okay, I know better than to argue," the Chief said dolefully when he
+had finished. "But watch your oxygen." Damn the oxygen, Crag thought
+irritably. He studied the labyrinth of rock into which his quarry had
+vanished, then rose and started across the plain in a direct line for
+the opposite tip of the crescent.
+
+The first moments were the hardest. After that he knew he must be almost
+out of range of the sniper's weapon. Perhaps, even, the other had not
+seen his maneuver. He forced himself into a slow trot, his breath
+whistling in his ears and his body sodden inside his suit. Perspiration
+stung his eyes, his leg muscles ached almost intolerably, and every
+movement seemed made on sheer will power. The whimsical thought crossed
+his mind that Gotch had never painted this side of the picture. Nor was
+it mentioned in the manual of space survival.
+
+He was thankful that the plain between the two tips of the crescent was
+fairly even. He moved quickly, but it was a long time before he reached
+the further tip of the crescent. He wondered if he had been observed
+from Red Dog. Well, no matter, he thought. He had cut the sniper's sole
+avenue of escape. Victory over his quarry was just a matter of time, a
+matter of waiting for him to appear. He picked a vantage point, a high
+rocky ledge which commanded all approaches to his position. After
+briefing Prochaska, he settled back to wait, thinking that the fugitive
+must be extremely low on oxygen.
+
+Long minutes passed. Once or twice he thought he saw movement among the
+rocks and started to lift his rifle; but there was no movement.
+Illusions, he told himself. His eyes were playing him tricks. The
+bizarre sea of rocks confronting him was a study in black and white--the
+intolerable light of sun-struck surfaces contrasting with the stygian
+blackness of the shadows. His eyes began to ache and he shifted them
+from time to time to shut out the glare. He was sweating again and there
+was a dull ache at the back of his head. Precious time was fleeing. He'd
+have to resolve the chase--soon.
+
+All at once he saw movement that was not an illusion. He half rose,
+raising his rifle when dust spurted from the ground a few feet to his
+left. He cursed and threw himself to the ground, rolling until he was
+well below the ridge. One thing was certain: the sniper had the ridge
+well under control. The Red Dog watcher must have warned him, he
+thought. He looked around. Off to one side a small rill cut through the
+rocks running in the sniper's general direction. He looked back toward
+the ridge, hesitated, then decided to gamble on the rill. He moved
+crablike along the side of the slope until he reached its edge and
+peered over. The bottom was a pool of darkness. He lowered himself over
+the edge with some misgivings, searching for holds with his hands and
+feet. His boot unexpectedly touched bottom.
+
+Crag stood for a moment on the floor of the rill. His body was clothed
+in black velvet shadows but it was shallow enough to leave his head in
+the sunlight. He moved cautiously forward, half expecting the sniper to
+appear in front of him. His nerves were taut, edgy.
+
+_Relax, boy, you're strung like a violin_, he told himself. _Take it
+easy._
+
+A bend in the rill cut off the sun leaving him in a well of blackness.
+He hadn't counted on that. Before he'd moved another dozen steps he
+realized the rill wasn't the answer. He'd have to chance getting back
+into the open. More time was lost. He felt the steep sides until he
+located a series of breaks in the wall, then slung his rifle over his
+shoulder and inched upward until his head cleared the edge. The sun's
+sudden glare blinded him. Involuntarily he jerked his head sideways,
+almost losing his hold in the process. He clung to the wall for a moment
+before laboriously pulling his body over the edge.
+
+He lay prone against the rocks, half-expecting to be greeted by a hail
+of bullets. He waited quietly, without moving, then carefully raised his
+head. Off to one side was a series of mounds. He crawled toward them
+without moving his belly from the ground. When he reached the first one,
+he half rose and scuttled forward until he found a view of the twisted
+rocks where he had last seen the sniper.
+
+The scene ahead was a still-life painting. It seemed incongruous that
+somewhere among the quiet rocks death moved in the form of a man. He
+decided against penetrating further into the tangle of rocks. He'd wait.
+He settled back, conscious that time was fleeing.
+
+"Skipper, are you checking your oxygen?" The Chief's voice rattled
+against his eardrums. It was filled with alarm.
+
+"Listen, I have no time--" Crag started to growl. His words were clipped
+short as his eyes involuntarily took the reading of his oxygen gauge.
+Low ... low. He calculated quickly. He was well past the point of no
+return--too low to make the long trip back to Bandit. He was done, gone,
+a plucked gosling. He had bought himself a coffin and he'd rest there
+for all eternity--boxed in by the weird tombstones of Crater Arzachel.
+Adam Crag--the Man in the Moon.
+
+He grinned wryly. Well, at least his quarry was going with him. He
+wouldn't greet his Maker empty handed. He tersely informed Prochaska of
+his predicament, then recklessly moved to a high vantage point and
+scanned the rocks beyond.
+
+He had to make every second count. Light and shadow ... light and
+shadow. Somewhere in the crisscross of light and shadow was a man-form,
+a blob of protoplasm like himself, a living thing that had to be stamped
+out before the last of his precious oxygen was gone. He was the
+executioner. Somewhere ahead a doomed man waited in the docks ... waited
+for him to come. They were two men from opposite sides of the world,
+battling to death in Hell's own backyard. Only he'd win ... win before
+he died.
+
+He was scanning the rocky tableau when the sniper moved into his field
+of vision, far to one side of Crag's position. He was running with short
+choppy steps, threading between the rocks toward Red Dog. His haste and
+apparent disregard of exposing himself puzzled Crag for a moment, then
+he smiled grimly. Almost out of oxygen, he thought. Well, that makes two
+of us. But he still had to make sure his quarry died. The thought
+spurred him to action.
+
+He turned and scrambled back toward the tip of Backbone Ridge to cut the
+sniper's escape route. He reached the end rocks and waited. A few
+moments later he sighted a figure scrambling toward him. He raised his
+rifle thinking it was too far for a shot, then lowered it again. The
+sniper began moving more slowly and cautiously, then became lost to
+sight in a maze of rock outcroppings.
+
+Crag waited impatiently, aware that precious moments were fleeing. He
+was afraid to look at his gauge, plagued by the sense of vanishing
+moments. Time was running out and eternity was drawing near--near to
+Adam Crag as well as the sniper. The rocks extended before him, a
+kaleidoscopic pattern of black and white. Somewhere in the tortuous
+labyrinth was the man he had to kill before he himself died. He watched
+nervously, trying to suppress the tension pulling at his muscles. A
+nerve in his cheek twitched and he shook his head without removing his
+eyes from the rocks ahead. Still there was no sign of the other.
+
+Who was the stalker and who was the stalked? The question bothered him.
+Perhaps even at that instant the sniper was drawing bead. Then he'd be
+free to reach Red Dog--safety.
+
+Crag decided he couldn't wait. He'd have to seek the other out, somehow
+flush him from cover. He looked around. Off to one side a shelf of black
+rock angled incongruously into the sky. Its sides were steep but its top
+would command all approaches to the tip of the crescent. He made his way
+to the base of the shelf and began scrambling up its steep sides,
+finding it difficult to manage toe and hand holds. He slipped from time
+to time, hanging desperately on to keep himself from rolling back to the
+rocks below. Just below the top he rested, panting, fighting for breath,
+conscious of his heart thudding in his ears. He had to hurry!
+
+Slowly, laboriously he pulled himself up the last few feet and lay
+panting atop the shelf, none too soon. The sniper scrambled out of the
+rocks a scant hundred yards from Crag's position. He raised his rifle,
+then hesitated. The Red Dog crewman had fallen to his hands and knees
+and was fighting to rise. He pushed his hands against the plain in an
+attempt to get his feet under him. Crag lowered his rifle and watched
+curiously.
+
+The sniper finally succeeded in getting to his feet. He stood for a
+moment, weaving, before moving toward Crag's shelf with a faltering
+zigzag gait. Crag raised the rifle and tried to line the sights. He had
+difficulty holding the weapon steady. He started to pull the trigger
+when the man fell again. Crag hesitated. The sniper floundered in the
+ash, managed to pull himself half-erect. He weaved with a few faltering
+steps and plunged forward on his face.
+
+Crag watched for a moment. There was no movement. The black blob of the
+suit lay with the stillness of the rocks in the brazen heat of the
+crater. So that's the way a man dies when his oxygen runs out, he
+thought. He just plops down, jerks a little and departs, with as little
+ceremony as that. He grinned crookedly, thinking he had just watched a
+rehearsal of his own demise. He watched for a moment longer before
+turning his face back toward the plain.
+
+Red Dog was a bare half-mile away--a clear level half-mile from the tip
+of Backbone Ridge. That's how close the sniper had come to living. He
+mulled the thought with a momentary surge of hope. Red Dog? Why not? If
+he could shoot his way into the space cabin he'd live ... live. The
+thought galvanized him to action.
+
+He slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the slope
+heedless of the danger of ripping his suit. He could make it. He had to
+make it! He gained the bottom and paused to catch his breath before
+starting toward the rocket. A glance at his oxygen meter told him that
+the race was futile. Still, he forced his legs into a run, threading
+through the rocks toward the floor of the crater. He reached the tip of
+the crescent panting heavily and plunged across the level floor of the
+plain. His legs were leaden, his lungs burned and sweat filled his eyes,
+stinging and blurring his vision. Still he ran.
+
+The rocket rose from the crater floor, growing larger, larger. He tried
+to keep in a straight path, aware that he was moving in a crazy zigzag
+course.
+
+The rocket loomed bigger ... bigger. It appeared immense. Caution, he
+told himself, there's an hombre up there with a rifle. He halted,
+feeling his body weave, and tried to steady himself. High up in the nose
+of Red Dog the hatch was a dancing black shadow--black with movement.
+He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and moved the control to full
+automatic, falling to his knees as he did so. Strange, the ashy floor of
+the crater was erupting in small fountains just to his side. Danger, he
+thought, take cover. The warning bells were still ringing in his brain
+as he slid forward on his stomach and tried to steady his weapon. Dust
+spurted across his face plate. The black rectangle of the hatch danced
+crazily in his sights. He pulled back on the trigger, feeling the heavy
+weapon buck against his shoulder, firing until the clip was empty. His
+fingers hurriedly searched his belt for the spare clips. Gone. Somehow
+he'd lost them. He'd have to rush the rocket.
+
+He got to his feet, weaving dizzily, and forced his legs to move. Once
+or twice he fell, regaining his feet with difficulty.
+
+He heard a voice. It took him a minute to realize it was his own. He was
+babbling to Prochaska, trying to tell him ...
+
+The sky was black. No, it was white, dazzling white, white with heat,
+red with flame. He saw Red Dog with difficulty. The rocket was a hotel,
+complete with room clerk. He laughed inanely. A Single, please. No, I'll
+only be staying for the night. He fell again. This time it took him
+longer to regain his feet. He stumbled ... walked ... stumbled. His eyes
+sought the rocket. It was weaving, swaying back and forth. Foolish, he
+thought, there was no wind in Crater Arzachel. No air, no wind, no
+nothing. Nothing but death. Wait, there was someone sitting on top of
+the rocket--a giant of a man with a long white beard. He watched Crag
+and smiled. He reached out a hand and beckoned. Crag ran. The sky
+exploded within his brain, his legs buckled and he felt his face plate
+smash against the ashy floor. For all eternity, he thought. The
+blackness came.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Adam Crag opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Above him the dome
+of the sky formed a great black canopy sprinkled with brilliant stars.
+His thoughts, chaotic memories, gradually stabilized and he remembered
+his mad flight toward Red Dog.
+
+This couldn't be death, he thought. Spirits didn't wear space suits. He
+sensed movement and twisted his head to one side. Gordon Nagel! The
+oxygen man's face behind the heavy plate was thin, gaunt, but he was
+smiling. Crag thought that he had never seen such a wonderful smile.
+Nagel's lips crinkled into speech:
+
+"I was beginning to wonder when you'd make it." Even his voice was
+different, Crag thought. The nasal twang was gone. It was soft, mellow,
+deep with concern. He thought it was the most wonderful sound he had
+ever heard.
+
+"Thanks, Gordon," he said simply. He spoke the words thinking it was the
+first time he'd ever addressed the other by his first name.
+
+"How'd you ever locate me?"
+
+"Started early," Nagel said. "I was pretty sure you'd push yourself past
+the point of no return. You seemed pretty set on getting that critter."
+
+"It's a wonder you located me." He managed to push himself to a sitting
+position.
+
+"Prochaska didn't think I could. But I did. Matter of fact, I was pretty
+close to you when you broke from the rocks heading for Red Dog." Red
+Dog! Crag twisted his head and looked toward the rocket.
+
+"He's lying at the base of the rocket," Nagel said, in answer to his
+unspoken question. "Your last volley sprayed him."
+
+"Skipper!" Prochaska's voice broke impatiently into his earphones.
+
+"Still alive," Crag answered.
+
+"Yeah--just." Prochaska's voice was peevish. "You were lucky with that
+last burst of fire."
+
+"Thanks to my good marksmanship," Crag quipped weakly.
+
+"I wish you'd quit acting like a company of Marines and get back here."
+
+"Okay, Colonel."
+
+Prochaska cursed and Crag grinned happily. It was good to be alive, even
+in Crater Arzachel.
+
+Nagel helped him to his feet and Crag stood for a moment, feeling the
+strength surge back into his body. He breathed deeply, luxuriating in
+the plentiful oxygen. Fresh oxygen. Fresh as a maiden's kiss, he thought
+Oxygen was gold. More than gold. It was life.
+
+"Ready, now?"
+
+"Ready as I ever will be," Crag answered. "Lead on, Gordon."
+
+They had almost reached Bandit when Crag broke the silence. "Why did you
+come ... to the moon, Gordon?"
+
+Nagel slowed his steps, then stopped and turned.
+
+"Why did you come, Commander?"
+
+"Because ... because ..." Crag floundered. "Because someone had to
+come," he blurted. "Because I was supposed to be good in my field." His
+eyes met Nagel's. The oxygen man was smiling, faintly.
+
+"I'm good in mine, too," he said. He chewed at his bottom lip for a
+moment.
+
+"I could give the same reasons as you," he said finally. "Truthfully,
+though, there's more to it." He looked at Crag defiantly.
+
+"I was a misfit on earth, Commander. A square peg in a round hole. I had
+dreams ... dreams, but they were not the dreams of earth. They were
+dreams of places in which there were no people." He gave an odd
+half-smile. "Of course I didn't tell the psych doctors that."
+
+"There's plenty I didn't tell 'em, myself," Crag said.
+
+"Commander, you might not understand this but ... I like the moon." He
+looked away, staring into the bleakness of Arzachel. Crag's eyes
+followed his. The plain beyond was an ash-filled bowl broken by weird
+ledges, spires, grotesque rocks. In the distance Backbone Ridge crawled
+along the floor of the basin, forming its fantastic labyrinths. Yet ...
+yet there was something fascinating, almost beautiful about the crater.
+It was the kind of a place a man might cross the gulfs of space to see.
+Nagel had crossed those gulfs. Yes, he could understand.
+
+"I'll never return to earth," he said, almost dreamily.
+
+"Nonsense."
+
+"Not nonsense, Commander. But I'm not unhappy at the prospect. Do you
+remember the lines:
+
+    _Under the wide and starry sky
+    Oh, dig the grave and let me lie ..._
+
+Well, that's the way I feel about the moon."
+
+"You'll be happy enough to get back to earth," Crag predicted.
+
+"I won't get back, Commander. Don't want to get back." He turned
+broodingly toward Bandit.
+
+"Maybe we'd better move on," Crag said gently. "I crave to get out of
+this suit."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 17
+
+
+"Martin Larkwell was a good boy," the superintendent said reminiscently,
+"and of course we're highly pleased he's made his mark in the world." He
+looked at the agent and beamed. "Or should I say the moon?" The agent
+smiled dutifully.
+
+"Young Martin was particularly good with his hands. Not that he wasn't
+smart," he added hurriedly. "He was very bright, in fact, but he was
+fortunate in that he coupled it with an almost uncanny knack of using
+his hands."
+
+The superintendent rambled at length. The agent listened, thinking it
+was the same old story. The men in the moon were all great men. They had
+been fine, upstanding boys, all bright with spotless records. Well, of
+course that was to be expected in view of the rigorous weeding out
+program which had resulted in their selections. Only one of them was a
+traitor. Which one? The question drummed against his mind.
+
+"Martin wasn't just a study drudge," the superintendent was saying. "He
+was a fine athlete. The star forward of the Maple Hill Orphanage
+basketball team for three years," he added proudly. He leaned forward
+and lowered his voice as if taking the agent into his confidence.
+
+"We're conducting a drive to build the orphanage a new gym. Maybe you
+can guess the name we've selected for it?"
+
+"The Martin Larkwell Gymnasium," the agent said drily.
+
+"Right." The superintendent beamed. "That's how much we think of Martin
+Larkwell."
+
+As it turned out, the superintendent wasn't the only one who remembered
+Martin Larkwell with fondness. A druggist, a grocer, a gas station
+operator and a little gray lady who ran a pet shop remembered the orphan
+boy with surprising affection. They and many others. That's the way the
+chips fall, the agent thought philosophically. Let a man become famous
+and the whole world remembers him. Well, his job was to separate the
+wheat from the chaff.
+
+In the days to follow he painstakingly traced Martin Larkwell's trail
+from the Maple Hill Orphanage to New York, to various construction jobs
+along the East Coast and, finally, through other agents, to a two-year
+stint in Argentina as construction boss for an American equipment firm.
+Later the trail led back to America and, finally, to construction
+foreman on Project Step One. His selection as a member of the Aztec Crew
+stemmed from his excellent work and construction ability displayed
+during building of the drones. All in all, the agent thought, the record
+was clear and shiny bright.
+
+Martin Larkwell, Gordon Nagel, Max Prochaska, Adam Crag--four eager
+scrub-faced American boys, each outstanding in his field. There was only
+one hitch. Who was the traitor?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Crag filled Gotch in on the latest developments in Crater Arzachel. The
+Colonel listened without interruption until he was through, then
+retaliated with a barrage of questions. What was the extent of the
+radioactive field? What were the dimensions of Red Dog? Had any progress
+been made toward salvaging the cargo of Drone Baker? How was the airlock
+in the rill progressing? Would he please describe the rocket launcher
+the enemy had used to destroy the Aztec? Crag gritted his teeth to keep
+from exploding, barely managing civil replies. Finally he could hold it
+no longer.
+
+"Listen," he grated, "this is a four-man crew, not a damn army."
+
+"Certainly," Gotch interrupted, "I appreciate your difficulties. I was
+just--in a manner of speaking--outlining what has to be done."
+
+"As if I didn't know."
+
+The Colonel pressed for his future plans. Crag told him what he thought
+in no uncertain terms. When he finished he thought he heard a soft
+chuckle over the earphones. Damn Gotch, he thought, the man is a sadist.
+The Colonel gave him another morsel of information--a tidbit that
+mollified him.
+
+Pickering Field, Gotch informed him, was now the official name of the
+landing site in Crater Arzachel. Furthermore, the Air Force was
+petitioning the Joint Chiefs to make it an official part of the U.S.
+Air Force defense system. A fact which had been announced to the world.
+Furthermore, the United States had petitioned the U.N. to recognize its
+sovereignty over the moon. Before cutting off he added one last bit of
+information, switching to moon code to give it.
+
+"_Atom job near completion_," he spelled out. For the moment Crag felt
+jubilant. An atom-powered space ship spelled complete victory over the
+Eastern World. It also meant Venus ... Mars ... magical names in his
+mind. Man was on his way to the stars. MAN--the peripatetic quester. For
+just an instant he felt a pang of jealousy. He'd be pinned to his vacuum
+while men were conquering the planets. Or would he? But the mood passed.
+Pickering Field, he realized, would play an important role in the future
+of space flight. If it weren't the stars, at least it was the jump-off.
+In time it would be a vast Air Force Base housing rockets instead of
+stratojets. Pickering Base--the jump-off--the road to the stars. Pretty
+soon the place would be filled with rank so high that the bird colonels
+would be doing mess duty. But right now, he was Mr. Pickering Field, the
+Man with the Brass Eyeballs.
+
+While the others caught up on their sleep, Crag and Prochaska reviewed
+their homework, as the Chief had dubbed their planning sessions. The
+area in which Bandit rested was too far from the nearest rill to use as
+a base of operation, and it was also vulnerable to meteorite damage.
+Bandit had to be abandoned, and soon. Red Dog would be their next home.
+There was also the problem of salvaging the contents of Drone Baker and
+removing the contents of Drone Charlie. Last, there was the problem of
+building the airlock in one of the rills. When they had laid out the
+problems, they exchanged quizzical glances. The Chief smiled weakly.
+
+"Seems like a pretty big order."
+
+"A very big order," Crag amended. "The first move is to secure Red
+Dog." They talked about it until Crag found his eyelids growing heavy.
+Prochaska, although tired, volunteered to take the watch. Crag nodded
+gratefully--a little sleep was something he could use.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Red Dog was squat, ebony, taper-nosed, distinguishable from the lithic
+structures dotting this section of Crater Arzachel only by its symmetry.
+The grotesque rock ledges, needle-sharp pinnacles and twisted formations
+of the plain clearly were the handiwork of a nature in the throes of
+birth, when volcanoes burst and the floor of the crater was an uneasy
+sea of white-hot magmatic rock. Red Dog was just as clearly the creation
+of some other-world artificer, a creature born of the intelligence and
+patience of man, structured to cross the planetary voids. Yet it seemed
+a part of the plain, as ancient as the brooding dolomites and diorites
+which made the floor of Arzachel a lithic wonderland. The tail of Red
+Dog was buried in the ash of the plain. Its body reached upward, canted
+slightly from the vertical, as if it were ready to spring again to the
+stars.
+
+The rocket launcher had been removed. Now it stood on the plain off to
+one side of the rocket, small and portable, like some deadly insect. The
+launcher bothered Crag. He wanted to destroy it--or the single missile
+that remained--but was deterred by its possible use if the enemy should
+land another manned ship. In the end he left it where it was.
+
+One of the numerous rills which crisscrossed the floor of the crater cut
+near the base of the rocket at a distance of about ten yards. It was a
+shallow rill, about twelve feet wide and ten feet deep, with a bottom of
+soft ash.
+
+Adam Crag studied the rocket and rill in turn, a plan gradually forming
+in his mind. The rocket could be toppled, its engines removed and an
+airlock installed in the tail section, as had been done with the Aztec.
+It could be lowered into the rill and its body, all except the airlock,
+covered with ash. Materials salvaged from the drones could be used to
+construct extensions running along the floor of the rill and these, in
+turn, covered with ash. This, then, would be the first moonlock, a place
+where man could live, safe from the constant danger of destruction by
+chance meteorites.
+
+He looked thoughtfully at the sun. It was an unbearable circle of white
+light hanging in the purple-black sky just above the horizon. Giant
+black shadows crept out from the towering walls of the crater. Within
+another twenty-four hours they would engulf the rocket. During the lunar
+night--two weeks long--the crater floor would be gripped in the cold of
+absolute space; the rocket would lie in a stygian night broken only by
+the brilliance of the stars and the reflected light of an earth which
+would seem to fill the sky. But they couldn't wait for the advent of a
+new day. They would have to get started immediately.
+
+Larkwell opposed the idea of working through the long lunar night. He
+argued that the suits would not offer sufficient protection against the
+cold, they needed light to work, and that the slow progress they would
+make wouldn't warrant the risks and discomfort they would have to
+undergo. Nagel unexpectedly sided with Crag. He cited the waste of
+oxygen which resulted by having to decompress Bandit every time someone
+left or entered the ship.
+
+"We need an airlock, and soon," he said.
+
+Crag listened and weighed the arguments. Larkwell was right. The space
+suits weren't made to withstand prolonged exposure during the bitter
+hours of the lunar night. But Nagel was right, too.
+
+"I doubt if we could live cooped up in Bandit for two weeks without
+murdering one another," Prochaska observed quietly. "I vote we go
+ahead."
+
+"Sure, you sit on your fanny and monitor the radio," Larkwell growled.
+"I'm the guy who has to carry the load."
+
+Prochaska reddened and started to answer when Crag cut in: "Cut the
+damned bickering," he snapped. "Max handles the communication because
+that's his job." He looked sharply at Larkwell. The construction boss
+grunted but didn't reply.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Night and bitter cold came to Crater Arzachel with a staggering blow.
+Instantly the plain became a black pit lighted only by the stars and the
+enormous crescent of the earth--an airless pit in which the temperature
+plunged until metal became as brittle as glass and the materials of the
+space suits stiffened until Crag feared they would crack.
+
+Larkwell warned against continuing their work.
+
+"One misstep in lowering Red Dog and it'll shatter like an egg."
+
+Crag realized he was right. Lowering the rocket in the bitter cold and
+blackness would be a superhuman job. Loss of the rocket would be
+disastrous. Against this was the necessity of obtaining shelter from the
+meteor falls. His determination was fortified by the discovery that a
+stray meteorite had smashed the nose of Drone Charlie. He decided to go
+on.
+
+The cold seeped through their suits, chilled their bones, touched their
+arms and legs like a thousand pin pricks and lay like needles in their
+lungs until every movement was sheer agony. Yet their survival depended
+upon movement, hence every moment away from Bandit was filled with
+forced activity. But even the space cabin of Bandit was more like an
+outsized icebox than a place designed for human habitation. The rocket's
+insulated walls were ice to the touch, their breaths were frosty
+streams--sleep was possible only because of utter fatigue. At the end of
+each work shift the body simply rebelled against the task of retaining
+consciousness. Thus a few hours of merciful respite against the cold was
+obtained.
+
+Crag assigned Prochaska the task of monitoring the radio despite his
+plea to share in the more arduous work. The knowledge that one of his
+crew was a saboteur lay constantly in his mind. He had risked leaving
+Prochaska alone before, he could risk it again, but he wasn't willing to
+risk leaving any of the others alone in Bandit. Yet, Prochaska hadn't
+found the bomb! Larkwell had worked superhumanly at the task of
+rebuilding the Aztec--Nagel had saved his life when he could just as
+easily have let him die. Neither seemed the work of a saboteur. Yet the
+cold fact remained--there was a saboteur!
+
+Richter, too, preyed on his mind. The self-styled Eastern scientist was
+noncommittal, speaking only when spoken to. Yet he performed his
+assigned duties without hesitation. He had, in fact, made himself so
+useful that he almost seemed one of the crew. That, Crag told himself,
+was the danger. The tendency was to stop watching Richter, to trust him
+farther and farther. Was he planning, biding his time, preparing to
+strike? How? When? He wished he knew.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They toppled Red Dog in the dark of the moon.
+
+Larkwell had run two cables to manually operated winches set about
+twenty-five yards from the rocket. A second line extended from each
+winch to the ravine. The ends of these were weighted with rocks. They
+served to anchor the winches during the lowering of the rocket. Finally
+a guide line ran from the nose of the rocket to a third winch. Richter
+and Nagel manned the lowering winches while Larkwell worked with the
+guide line, with only small hand torches to aid them. It was
+approximately the same setup used on the Aztec--they were getting good
+at it. Crag helped until the moment came to lower the rocket, then there
+was little for him to do. He contented himself with watching the
+operation, playing his torch over the scene as he felt it was needed.
+
+It was an eery feeling. The rocket was a black monster bathed in the
+puny yellow rays of their hand torches. The pale light gave the illusion
+of movement until the rocket, the rocks, and the very floor of the
+crater seemed to writhe and squirm, playing tricks on the eyes. It was,
+he knew, a dangerous moment, one ripe for a saboteur to strike--or ripe
+for Richter.
+
+It was dark. Not an ebony dark but one, rather, with the odd color of
+milky velvet. The earth was almost full, a gigantic globe whose
+reflected light washed out the brilliance of the stars and gave a milky
+sheen to Crater Arzachel. It was a light in which the eye detected form
+as if it were looking through a murky sea. It detected form but missed
+detail. Only the gross structures of the plain were visible: the
+blackness of the rocket reaching upward into the night; fantastic
+twisted rocks which blotted out segments of the stars; the black blobs
+of men moving in heavy space suits, dark shadows against the still
+darker night. The eery almost futile beams of the hand torches seemed
+worse than useless.
+
+"All set." Larkwell's voice was grim. "Let her come."
+
+Crag fastened his eyes on the nose of Red Dog, a tapered indistinct
+silhouette.
+
+"Start letting out line at the count of three." There was a pause before
+Larkwell began the countdown.
+
+"One ... two ... three...."
+
+The nose moved, swinging slowly across the sky, then began falling.
+
+"Slack off!"
+
+The lines jerked, snapped taut, and the nose hung suspended in space,
+then began swinging to one side.
+
+"Take up on your line, Richter." The sideward movement stopped, leaving
+the rocket canted at an angle of about forty-five degrees.
+
+"Okay...." The nose moved down again, slower this time. Crag began to
+breathe easier. Suddenly the nose skidded to the rear, falling, then
+the rocket was a motionless blob on the plain.
+
+"That did it." Larkwell's voice was ominous, yet tinged with disgust.
+
+"What happened?" Crag found himself shouting into the lip mike.
+
+"The tail slipped. That's what we get for trying to lower it under these
+conditions," Larkwell snarled. "The damn thing's probably smashed."
+
+Crag didn't answer. He moved slowly toward the rocket, playing his torch
+over its hull in an attempt to discern its details. He was conscious
+that the others had come up and were doing the same thing, but even when
+he stood next to it Red Dog was no more than a black shadow.
+
+"Feel it," Larkwell barked, "that's the only way to tell. The torches
+are useless." They followed his advice. Crag walked alongside the
+rocket, moving his hand over the smooth surface. He had reached the tail
+and started back on the opposite side when Larkwell's voice rang in his
+ears.
+
+"Smashed!"
+
+"Where?"
+
+"The under side--where she hit the deck. Looks like she came down on a
+rock."
+
+Crag hurried back around the rocket, nearly stumbling over Larkwell's
+legs. The construction boss was lying on his stomach.
+
+"Under here." Crag dropped to his knees, then to his stomach and moved
+alongside Larkwell, playing his beam over the hull. He saw the break
+immediately, a ragged, gaping hole where the metal had shattered against
+a small rock outcropping. Too big for a weld? Larkwell answered his
+unspoken thought.
+
+"You'll play hell getting that welded."
+
+"It might be possible."
+
+"There may be more breaks." They lay there for a moment playing their
+beams along the visible underside of Red Dog until they were satisfied
+that, in this section at least, there was no more damage.
+
+"What now?" Larkwell asked, when they had crawled back from under the
+rocket.
+
+"The plans haven't changed," Crag said stonily. "We repair it ... fix it
+up ... move in. That's all there is to it."
+
+"You can't fix it by just saying so," Larkwell growled. "First it's got
+to be fixable. It looks like a cooked duck, to me."
+
+"We gotta start back," Nagel said urgently, "oxygen's getting low."
+
+Crag looked at his gauge. Nagel was right. They'd have to get moving. He
+was about to give the signal to return to Bandit when Richter spoke up.
+
+"It can be repaired." For a moment there was a startled silence.
+
+"How?"
+
+"The inside of the cabin is lined with foam rubber, the same as in
+Bandit--a self-sealing type designed for protection against meteorite
+damage."
+
+"So...?" Larkwell asked belligerently.
+
+Richter explained, "It's not porous. If the break were covered with
+metal and lined with the foam, it would do a pretty good job of sealing
+the cabin."
+
+"You can't patch a leak that big with rubber and expect it to hold,"
+Larkwell argued. "Hell, the pressure would blow right through."
+
+"Not if you lined the break with metal first," Richter persisted.
+
+The suggestion startled Crag, coming as it did from a man whom he
+regarded as an enemy. For a moment he wondered if the German's instinct
+for survival were greater than his patriotism. But the plan sounded
+plausible.
+
+He asked Larkwell: "What do you think?"
+
+"Could be," he replied noncommittally. He didn't seem pleased that
+Richter was intruding in a sphere which he considered his own.
+
+Crag gave a last look at the silhouette of the fallen giant on the plain
+and announced: "We'll try it."
+
+"If it doesn't work, we're in the soup," Larkwell insisted. "Suppose
+there are more breaks?"
+
+"We'll patch those, too," Crag snapped. He felt an unreasonable surge of
+anger toward the construction boss. He sucked his lip, vexedly, then
+turned his torch on his oxygen meter. "We'd better get moving."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 18
+
+
+Colonel Michael Gotch looked at the agent across the narrow expanse of
+his battered desk, then his eyes fell again to the dockets. Four
+dockets, four small sheaves of paper, each the capsuled story of a man's
+life. The names on the dockets were literally burned into his mind: Adam
+Philip Crag, Martin LeRoy Larkwell, Gordon Wells Nagel, Max Edward
+Prochaska. Four names, four men, four separate egos who, by the magic of
+man, had been transported to a bleak haven on another world. Four men
+whose task was to survive an alien hell until the U.N. officially
+recognized the United States' claim to sovereignty over the stark lands
+of the moon.
+
+But one of the men was a saboteur, an agent whose task was to destroy
+the Western claim to ownership by destroying its occupancy of the moon.
+That would leave the East free to claim at least equal sovereignty on
+the basis that it, too, had established occupancy in a lunar base.
+
+The agent broke into his thoughts. "I'd almost stake my professional
+reputation he's your man." He reached over and tapped one of the dockets
+significantly.
+
+"The word, the single word, that's what you used to tell me to watch
+for. Well, the single word is there--the word that spells traitor. I'd
+gone over his record a dozen times before I stumbled on it." He ceased
+speaking and watched the Colonel.
+
+"You may be right," Gotch said at last. "That's the kind of slip I'd
+pounce on myself." He hesitated.
+
+"Go on," the agent said, as if reading his thoughts.
+
+"There's one thing I didn't tell you because I didn't want to prejudice
+your thinking. The psychiatrists agree with you."
+
+"The psychiatrists?" The agent's brow furrowed in a question.
+
+"They've restudied the records exhaustively, ever since we first knew
+there was a saboteur in the crew.
+
+"They've weighed their egos, dissected their personalities, analyzed
+their capabilities, literally taken them apart and put them together
+again. I got their report just this morning." Gotch looked speculatively
+at the agent. "Your suspect is also their choice. Only there is no
+traitor."
+
+"No traitor?" The agent started visibly. "I don't get you."
+
+"No traitor," Gotch echoed. "This is a tougher nut than that. The
+personality profile of one man shows a distinct break." He looked
+expectantly at the agent.
+
+"A plant." The agent muttered, the words thoughtfully. "A ringer--a spy
+who has adopted the life role of another. That indicates careful
+planning, long preparation." He muttered the words aloud, talking to
+himself.
+
+"He would have had to cover every contingency--friends, relatives,
+acquaintances, skills, hobbies--then, at an exact time and place, our
+man was whisked away and he merely stepped in." He shook his head.
+
+"That's the kind of nut that's really tough to crack."
+
+"Crack it," Gotch said.
+
+The agent got to his feet "I'll dig him out," he promised savagely.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The drive to rehabilitate Red Dog became a frenzy in Crag's mind. He
+drove his crew mercilessly, beset by a terrible sense of urgency. Nor
+did he spare himself. They rigged lines in the dark of the moon and
+rotated the rocket on its long axis until the break in the hull was
+accessible.
+
+Crag viewed it with dismay. It was far longer than he had feared--a
+splintered jagged hole whose raw torn edges were bent into the belly of
+the ship. They finally solved the problem by using the hatch door of
+Drone Charlie as a seal, lining it with sheets of foam from Bandit,
+whose interior temperature immediately plummeted to a point where it was
+scarcely livable.
+
+Prochaska bore the brunt of this new discomfort. Confined as he was to
+the cabin and with little opportunity for physical activity, he nearly
+froze until he took to living in his space suit.
+
+Crag began planning the provisioning of Red Dog even before he knew it
+could be repaired. During each trip from Bandit he burdened the men with
+supplies. Between times he managed to remove the spare oxygen cylinders
+carried in Drone Charlie. There was still a scant supply in Drone Baker,
+but he decided to leave those until later.
+
+The problems confronting him gnawed at his mind until each small
+difficulty assumed giant proportions. Each time he managed to fit the
+work into a proper mental perspective a new problem or disaster cropped
+up. He grew nervous and irritable. In his frantic haste to complete the
+work on Red Dog he found himself begrudging the crew the few hours they
+took off each day for sleep. _Take it easy_, he finally told himself.
+_Slow down_, Adam. Yet despite his almost hourly resolves to slow down,
+he found himself pushing at an ever faster pace. Complete Red Dog ...
+complete Red Dog ... became a refrain in his mind.
+
+Larkwell grew sullen and surly, snapping at Richter at the slightest
+provocation. Nagel became completely indifferent, and in the process,
+completely ineffectual. Crag had long realized that the oxygen man had
+reached his physical limits. Now, he knew, Nagel had passed them. Maybe
+he was right ... maybe he wouldn't leave the moon.
+
+When the break in Red Dog was repaired, Crag waited, tense and jittery,
+while Nagel entered the rocket and pressurized it. It'll work, he told
+himself. It's got to work. The short period Nagel remained in the rocket
+seemed to extend into hours before he opened the hatch.
+
+"One or two small leaks," he reported wearily. He looked disconsolately
+at Crag. "Maybe we can locate them--with a little time."
+
+"Good." Crag nodded, relieved. Another crisis past. He ordered Larkwell
+to start pulling the engines. If things went right....
+
+The work didn't progress nearly as fast as he had hoped. For one thing,
+the engines weren't designed for removal. They were welded fast against
+cross beams spread between the hull. Consequently, the metal sides of
+the ship were punctured numerous times before the job was completed.
+Each hole required another weld, another patch, and increased the danger
+of later disaster.
+
+Crag grew steadily moodier. Larkwell seemed to take a vicious
+satisfaction out of each successive disaster. He had adopted an
+I-told-you-so attitude that grated Crag's nerves raw. Surprisingly
+enough, Richter proved to be a steadying influence, at least to Crag. He
+worked quietly, efficiently, seeming to anticipate problems and find
+solutions before even Crag recognized them. Despite the fact that he
+found himself depending on the German more and more, he was determined
+never to relax his surveillance over the man. Richter was an enemy--a
+man to be watched.
+
+Larkwell and Nagel were lackadaisically beginning work on the ship's
+airlock when Prochaska came on the interphones with an emergency call.
+
+"Gotch calling," he told Crag. "He's hot to get you on the line."
+
+Crag hesitated. "Tell him to go to hell," he said finally. "I'll call
+him on the regular hour."
+
+"He said you'd say that," Prochaska informed him amiably, "but he wants
+you now."
+
+Another emergency--another hair-raiser. _Gotch is a damn ulcer-maker_,
+Crag thought savagely. "Okay, I'm on my way," he said wearily. "Anything
+to keep him off my back."
+
+"Can I tell him that?"
+
+"Tell him anything you want," Crag snapped. He debated taking the crew
+with him but finally decided against it. They couldn't afford the time.
+Reluctantly he put the work party in Larkwell's charge and started back
+across the bowl of the crater, each step a deliberate weighted effort.
+So much to do. So little time. He trudged through the night, cursing the
+fate that had made him Gotch's pawn.
+
+Gotch was crisp and to the point. "Another rocket was launched from east
+of the Caspian this morning," he told him.
+
+"Jesus, we need a company of Marines."
+
+"Not this time, Adam."
+
+"Oh ..." Crag muttered the word.
+
+"That's right ... a warhead," Gotch confirmed.
+
+Crag kicked the information around in his mind for a moment. "What do
+the computers say?"
+
+"Too early to say for sure, but it looks like it's on the right track."
+
+"Unless it's a direct hit it's no go. We got ten thousand foot walls
+rimming this hell-hole."
+
+The Colonel was silent for a moment. "It's not quite that pat," he said
+finally.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Because of the low gravity. Thousands of tons of rock will be lifted.
+Some will escape but the majority will fall back like rain. They'll
+smash down over a tremendously large area, Adam. At least that's what
+the scientists tell us."
+
+"Okay, in four days we'll be underground," he said with exaggerated
+cheerfulness, "as safe as bunnies in their burrows."
+
+"Can you make it that fast?"
+
+"We'll have to. That means well have to use Prochaska. That'll keep you
+off the lines except for the regular broadcast hour," he said with
+satisfaction.
+
+Gotch snorted: "Go to hell."
+
+"Been on the verge of it ever since we left earth."
+
+"One other thing," Gotch said. "Baby's almost ready to try its wings."
+
+The atomic spaceship! Crag suppressed his excitement with difficulty. He
+held down his voice.
+
+"About time," he said laconically.
+
+"Don't give me that blasé crap," the Colonel said cheerfully. "I know
+exactly how you feel." He informed him that the enemy was proclaiming to
+the world they had established a colony on the moon, and had formally
+requested the United Nations to recognize their sovereignty over the
+lunar world. "How's that for a stack of hogwash?" he ended.
+
+"Pretty good," Crag agreed. "What are we claiming?"
+
+"The same thing. Only we happen to be telling the truth."
+
+"How will the U.N. know that?"
+
+"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Adam. Just keep alive and
+let us worry about the U.N."
+
+"I'm not going to commit suicide if that's what you're thinking."
+
+"You can--if you don't keep on your toes."
+
+"Meaning...?"
+
+"The saboteur...." His voice fell off for a moment. "I've been wanting
+to talk with you about that, Adam. We have a lead. I can't name the man
+yet because it's pretty thin evidence. Just keep on your toes."
+
+"I am. I'm a grown boy, remember?"
+
+"More than usual," Gotch persisted. "The enemy is making an all-out
+drive to destroy Pickering Base. You can be sure the saboteur will do
+his share. The stage is set, Adam."
+
+"For what?"
+
+"For murder."
+
+"Not this lad."
+
+"Don't be too cocky. Remember the Blue Door episode? You're the key
+man ... and that makes you the key target. Without you the rest would
+be a cinch."
+
+"I'll be careful," Crag promised.
+
+"Doubly careful," Gotch cautioned. "Don't be a sitting duck. I think
+maybe we'll have a report for you before long," he added enigmatically.
+
+"If the warhead doesn't get us," Crag reminded him. "And thanks for all
+the good news." He laughed mirthlessly. They exchanged a few more words
+and cut off. He turned to Prochaska, weighing his gaunt face.
+
+"You get your wish, Max. Climb into your spaceman duds and I'll take you
+for a stroll. As of now you're a working man."
+
+"Yippee," Prochaska clowned, "I've joined the international ranks of
+workers."
+
+Crag's answering grin was bleak. "You'll be sorry," he said quietly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 19
+
+
+The earth was no longer a round full ball. It was a gibbous mass of
+milk-white light, humpbacked, a twisted giant in the sky whose reflected
+radiance swept the lunar night and dimmed even the brightest of the
+stars. Its beacon swept out through space, falling in Crater Arzachel
+with a soft creamy sheen, outlining the structures of the plain with its
+dim glow.
+
+Larkwell and Nagel had finished the airlock. The rocket had been tested
+and, despite a few minute leaks they had failed to locate, the space
+cabin was sufficiently airtight to serve their purpose. But the rocket
+had still to be lowered into the rill. Larkwell favored waiting for the
+coming sun.
+
+"It's only a few more days," he told Crag.
+
+"We can't wait."
+
+"We smashed this baby once by not waiting."
+
+"Well have to risk it," Crag said firmly.
+
+"Why? We're not that short of oxygen."
+
+Crag debated. Sooner or later the others would have to be told about the
+new threat from the sides. That morning Gotch had given him ominous
+news. The computers indicated it was going to be close. Very close. He
+looked around. They were watching him, waiting for him to give answer to
+Larkwell's question.
+
+He said softly: "Okay, I'll tell you why. There's a rocket homing in
+with the name Arzachel on its nose."
+
+"More visitors?" The plaintive query came from Nagel. Crag shook his
+head negatively.
+
+"We've got arms," Prochaska broke in confidently. He grinned "We'll
+elect you Commander of the First Arzachel Infantry Company."
+
+"This rocket isn't manned."
+
+"No?"
+
+"It's a warhead," Crag said grimly, "a nuclear warhead. If we're not
+underground when it hits...." He left the sentence dangling and looked
+around. The masked faces were blank, expressionless. It was a moment of
+silence, of weighing, before Larkwell spoke.
+
+"Okay," he said, "we drop her into the hole."
+
+He turned back and gazed at Red Dog. Nagel didn't move. He kept his eyes
+on Crag, seemingly rooted to the spot until Prochaska touched his arm.
+
+"Come on, Gordon," he said kindly. "We've got work to do." Only then did
+the oxygen man turn away. Crag had the feeling he was in a daze.
+
+They worked four hours beyond the regular shift before Crag gave the
+signal to stop. The cables had been fastened to Red Dog--the winches
+set. Now it was poised on the brink of the rill, ready for lowering into
+the black depths. Crag was impatient to push ahead but he knew the men
+were too tired. Even the iron-bodied Larkwell was faltering. It would be
+too risky. Yet he only reluctantly gave the signal to start back toward
+Bandit.
+
+They trudged across the plain--five black blobs, five shadows plodding
+through a midnight pit. Crag led the way. The earth overhead gleamed
+with a yellow-green light. The stars against the purple-black sky were
+washed to a million glimmering pinpoints. The sky, the crater, the black
+shadows etched against the blacker night bespoke the alienage of the
+universe. Arzachel was the forgotten world. More, a world that never
+was. It was solid matter created of nothingness, floating in
+nothingness, a minute speck adrift in the terrible emptiness of the
+cosmos. He shivered. It was an eery feeling.
+
+He reached Bandit and waited for the others to arrive. Prochaska,
+fresher than the others, was first on the scene. He threw a mock salute
+to Crag and started up the ladder. Larkwell and Richter arrived moments
+later. He watched them approach. They seemed stooped--like old men, he
+thought--but they gave him a short nod before climbing to the space
+cabin. He was beginning to worry before Nagel finally appeared. The
+oxygen man was staggering with weariness, barely able to stand erect.
+Crag stepped aside.
+
+"After you, Gordon."
+
+"Thanks, Skipper."
+
+Crag anxiously watched while Gordon pulled his way up the rope ladder.
+He paused halfway and rested his head on his arms. After a moment he
+resumed the climb. Crag waited until he reached the cabin before
+following. Could Nagel hold out? Could a man die of sheer exhaustion?
+The worry nibbled at his mind. Maybe he should give him a day's
+rest--let him monitor the communicator. Or just sleep. As it was his
+contribution to their work was nil. He did little more than go through
+the motions.
+
+Crag debated the problem while they pressurized the cabin and removed
+their suits. What would Gotch do? Gotch would drive him till he died.
+That's what Gotch would expect him to do. No, he couldn't be soft. Even
+Nagel's slight contribution might make the difference between success or
+failure. Life or death. He would have to ride it out. Crag set his lips
+grimly. He had felt kinder toward the oxygen man since that brief period
+when Nagel had let him peer into his mind. Now ... now he felt like his
+executioner. Just when he was beginning to understand the vistas of
+Nagel's being. But understanding and sympathizing with Nagel made his
+task all the more difficult. Impatiently he pushed the problem from his
+mind. There were other, bigger things he had to consider. Like the
+warhead.
+
+Larkwell was getting out their rations when Prochaska slumped
+wordlessly to the floor. Crag leaped to his side. The Chief's face was
+white, drawn, twisted in a curious way. Crag felt bewildered. Odd but
+his brain refused to function. He was struggling to make himself think
+when he saw Nagel leap for his pressure suit. Understanding came. He
+shouted to the others and grabbed for his own garments. He fought a wave
+of dizziness while he struggled to get them on. His fingers were heavy,
+awkward. He fumbled with the face plate for long precious seconds before
+he managed to pull it shut and snap on the oxygen.
+
+Nagel had finished and was trying to dress Prochaska. Crag sprang to
+help him. Together they managed to get him into his suit and turn on his
+oxygen. Only then did he speak.
+
+"How did we lose oxygen, Gordon?"
+
+"I don't know." He sounded frightened. "A slow leak." He got out his
+test equipment and fumbled with it. The others watched, waiting
+nervously until he finally spoke.
+
+"A very slow leak. Must have been a meteorite strike."
+
+"Can you locate it?"
+
+Nagel shrugged in his suit "It'll take time--and cost some oxygen."
+
+Crag looked at him and decided he was past the point of work. Past,
+even, the point of caring.
+
+"We'll take care of it," he said gently. "Get a little rest, Gordon."
+
+"Thanks, Skipper." Nagel slumped down in one of the seats and buried his
+head in his arms. Before long Prochaska began to stir. He opened his
+eyes and looked blankly at Crag for a long moment before comprehension
+came to his face.
+
+"Oxygen?"
+
+"Probably a meteorite strike. But it's okay ... now."
+
+Prochaska struggled to his feet "Well, I needed the rest," he joked
+feebly.
+
+The leak put an end to all thoughts of rations. They would have to
+remain in their suits until it was found and repaired. At Crag's
+suggestion Nagel and Larkwell went to sleep. More properly, they simply
+collapsed in their suits. Richter, however, insisted on helping search
+for the break in the hull. Crag didn't protest; he was, in fact,
+thankful.
+
+It was Prochaska who found it--a small rupture hardly larger than a pea
+in one corner of the cabin.
+
+"Meteorite," he affirmed, examining the hole. "We're lucky it hasn't
+happened before."
+
+They patched the break and repressurized the cabin, then tested it.
+Pressure remained constant. Crag gave a sigh of relief and started to
+shuck his suit. Richter followed his example but Prochaska hesitated,
+standing uncertainly.
+
+"Makes you leery," he said.
+
+"The chances of another strike are fairly low," Crag encouraged. "I feel
+the same way but we can't live in these duds." He finished peeling off
+his garments and Prochaska followed suit.
+
+Despite his fatigue sleep didn't come easy to Crag. He tossed
+restlessly, trying to push the problems out of his mind. Just before he
+finally fell asleep thought of the saboteur popped into his mind. I'll
+be a sitting duck, he told himself. He was trying to pull himself back
+to wakefulness when his body rebelled.
+
+He slept.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They prepared to lower Red Dog into the rill. Earth was humpbacked in
+the sky, almost a crescent, with a bright cone of zodiacal light in the
+east. The light was a herald of the coming sun, a sun whose rays would
+not reach the depths of Crater Arzachel for another forty-eight hours.
+
+In the black pit of the crater the yellow torches of the work crew
+played over the body of the rocket, making it appear like some
+gargantuan monster pulled from the depths of the sea. It was poised on
+the brink of the rill with cables encircling its body, running to
+winches anchored nearby. The cables would be let out, slowly, allowing
+the rocket to descend into the depths of the crevice. Larkwell on the
+opposite side of the rill manned a power winch rigged to pull the rocket
+over the lip of the crevice.
+
+"Ready on winch one?" His voice was a brittle bark, edgy with strain.
+Nagel spoke up.
+
+"Ready on winch one."
+
+"Ready on winch two?"
+
+"Ready on winch two," Prochaska answered.
+
+"Here we go." The line from Red Dog to Larkwell's winch tautened,
+jerked, then tautened once more. Red Dog seemed to quiver, and began
+rolling slowly toward the brink of the rill. Crag watched from a nearby
+spur of rock. He smiled wryly. Lowering rockets on the moon was getting
+to be an old story. The cables and winches all seemed familiar. Well,
+this would be the last one they'd have to lower. He hoped. Richter stood
+beside him, silent. The rocket hung on the lip of the crevice for a
+moment before starting over.
+
+"Take up slack." The lines to the anchor winches became taut and the
+rocket hung, half-suspended in space.
+
+"Okay." Larkwell's line tightened again and the rocket jerked clear of
+the edge, held in space by the anchor winches.
+
+"Lower away--slowly."
+
+Crag moved to the edge of the rill, conscious of Richter at his heels.
+The man's constant presence jarred him; yet, he was there by his orders.
+He played his torch over the rocket. It was moving into the rill in a
+series of jerks. Its tail struck the ashy floor. In another moment it
+rested at the bottom of the crevice. They would make it. A wave of
+exultation swept him. The biggest problems could be whipped if you just
+got aboard and rode them. Well, he'd ridden this one--ridden it through
+a night of Stygian blackness and unbelievable cold. Ridden it to
+victory despite damnable odds. He felt jubilant.
+
+But they would have to hurry if they were to get all their supplies and
+gear moved from Bandit before the warhead struck. They still had to
+cover Red Dog, burying it beneath a thick coat of ash. Would that be
+enough? It was designed to protect them from the dangers of meteorite
+dust, but would it withstand the rain of hell to come when the warhead
+struck? Wearily he pushed the thought from his mind.
+
+When the others had secured their gear, he gave the signal to return to
+Bandit. They struck out, trudging through the blackness in single file,
+following a serpentine path between the occasional rills and knolls
+scattered between the two ships. Crag swung his arms in an effort to
+keep warm. Tiny needles of pain stabbed at his hands and feet, and the
+cold in his lungs was an agony. Even in the darkness the path between
+the rockets had become a familiar thing.
+
+Despite the discomfort and weariness he rather liked the long trek
+between the rockets. It gave him time to think and plan, a time when
+nothing was demanded of him except that he follow a reasonably straight
+course. There was no warhead, no East World menace, no Gotch. There was
+only the blackness and the solitude of Crater Arzachel. He even liked
+the blackness of the lunar night, despite its attendant cold. The mantle
+of darkness hid the crater's ugliness, erasing its menacing profile and
+softening its features. He turned his eyes skyward as he walked. The
+earth was huge, many times the size of the full moon as seen from its
+mother planet, yet it seemed fragile, delicate, a pale ethereal wanderer
+of the heavens.
+
+Crag did not think of himself as an imaginative man. Yet when he beheld
+the earth something stirred deep within him. The earth became not a
+thing of rock and sea water and air, but a living being. He thought of
+Earth as _she_. At times she was a ghost treading among the stars, a
+waif lost in the immensity of the universe. And at times she was a
+wanton woman, walking in solitary splendor, her head high and proud. The
+stars were her lovers. Crag walked through the night, head up, wondering
+if ever again he would answer her call.
+
+He had almost reached Bandit when Nagel's voice broke excitedly into his
+earphones.
+
+"Something's wrong with Prochaska!"
+
+Crag stopped in his tracks, gripped by a sudden fear.
+
+"What?"
+
+"He was somewhere ahead of me. I just caught up to him...."
+
+"What's wrong with him?" Crag snapped irritably. Damn, wouldn't the man
+stop beating around the bush?
+
+"He's collapsed."
+
+"Coming," Crag said. He hurried back through the darkness, cursing
+himself for having let the party get strung out.
+
+"Too late, Commander." It was Richter's voice. "His suit's deflated.
+Must have been a meteorite strike."
+
+"Stay there," Crag ordered. "Larkwell...?"
+
+"I'm backtracking too...."
+
+They were all there when he arrived, gathered around Prochaska's huddled
+form. The yellow lights of their torches pinned his body against the
+ashy plain. Larkwell, on his knees, was running his hands over the
+electronic chief's body. Crag dropped to his side.
+
+"Here it is!"
+
+Larkwell's fingers had found the hole, a tiny rip just under the
+shoulder. Crag examined it, conscious that something was wrong. It
+didn't look like the kind of hole a meteorite would make. It looked, he
+thought, like, a small rip. The kind of a rip a knife point might make.
+He stared up at Larkwell. The construction boss's eyes met his and he
+nodded his head affirmatively. Crag got to his feet and faced the
+German.
+
+"Where were you when this happened?"
+
+"Ahead of him," Richter answered. "We were strung out. I think I was
+next in line behind you."
+
+Larkwell said softly: "You got here before I did. That would put you
+behind me."
+
+"I was ahead of you when we started." The German contemplated Larkwell
+calmly. "I didn't see you pass me."
+
+Crag turned to Nagel. "Where were you, Gordon?"
+
+"At the rear, as usual." His voice was bitter.
+
+"How far was Prochaska ahead of you?"
+
+"I wouldn't know." He looked away into the blackness, then back to Crag.
+"Would you expect me to?"
+
+Crag debated. Clearly he wasn't getting anywhere with the interrogation.
+He looked at Nagel. The man seemed on the verge of collapse.
+
+"We'll carry Max back. Lend a hand, Richter." His voice turned cold. "I
+want to examine that rip in the light."
+
+The German nodded calmly.
+
+"Stay together," Crag barked. "No stringing out Larkwell, you lead the
+way."
+
+"Okay." The construction boss started toward Bandit. Nagel fell in at
+his heels. Crag and Richter, carrying Prochaska's body between them,
+brought up at the rear.
+
+It took the last of Crag's strength before they managed to get the body
+into the space cabin.
+
+The men were silent while he conducted his examination. He removed the
+dead man's space suit, then stripped the clothing from the upper portion
+of his body, examining the flesh in the area where the suit had been
+punctured. The skin was unmarked. He studied the rip carefully. It was a
+clean slit.
+
+"No meteorite," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was cold,
+dangerously low. Larkwell's face was grim. Nagel wore a dazed, almost
+uncomprehending expression. Richter looked thoughtful. Crag's face was
+an icy mask but his thoughts were chaotic. Fear crept into his mind.
+This was the danger Gotch had warned him of.
+
+Richter? The saboteur? His eyes swung from man to man, coming finally to
+rest on the German. While he weighed the problem, one part of his mind
+told him a warhead was scorching down from the sides. Time was running
+out. He came to a decision. He ordered Larkwell and Richter to strip the
+pressure gear from Prochaska's body and carry it down to the plain.
+
+"Well bury him later--after the warhead."
+
+"If we're here," Larkwell observed.
+
+"I have every intention of being here," Crag said evenly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 20
+
+
+The day of the warhead arrived.
+
+The earth was a thin crescent in the sky whose light no longer paled the
+stars. They gleamed, hard and brittle against the purple-black of space,
+the reds and yellows and brilliant hot blues of suns lying at
+unimaginable distances in the vast box of the universe. Night still
+gripped Crater Arzachel with its intolerable cold, but a zodiacal light
+in the sky whispered of a lunar dawn to come. Measured against the
+incalculable scale of space distances the rocket had but a relative inch
+to cross. That inch was almost crossed. The rocket's speed had dropped
+to a mere crawl before it entered the moon's gravitational field; then
+it had picked up again, moving ever faster toward its rendezvous with
+destruction. Now it was storming down into the face of the land.
+
+They buried Red Dog. Larkwell had improvised a crude scraper made of
+metal strips from the interior of Drone Baker to aid in the task. He
+attached loops of cable to pull it. Crag, Larkwell and Richter wearily
+dragged the scraper across the plain, heaping the ash into piles, while
+Nagel handled the easier job of pushing them over the edge of the rill.
+
+The unevenness of the plain and occasional rock outcroppings made the
+work exasperatingly slow. Crag fumed but there was little he could do to
+rectify the situation. It took the better part of eight hours before the
+rill was filled level with the plain, with only the extreme end of the
+tail containing the airlock being left accessible.
+
+"Won't do a damn bit of good if anything big comes down," Larkwell
+observed when they had finished.
+
+"There's not much chance of a major hit," Crag conjectured. "It's the
+small stuff that worries me."
+
+"Bandit would be just as safe," Larkwell persisted.
+
+"Perhaps." He turned away from the construction boss. Richter was
+swinging his arms and stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. Nagel
+sat dejectedly on a rock, head buried in his arms. Crag felt a momentary
+pity for him--a pity tinged with resentment. Nagel was the weak link in
+their armor--a threat to their safety. For all practical purposes two
+men--he didn't include Richter--were doing the work of three. Yet, he
+thought, he couldn't exclude the German. The oxygen and supplies he
+consumed were less than those they had obtained from Bandit and Red Dog.
+And Richter worked--worked with a calm, relentless purpose--more than
+made up for Nagel's inability to shoulder his share. Maybe Richter was a
+blessing in disguise. He smiled grimly at the thought. But we're all
+shot, he told himself--all damned tired. Someone had to be the first to
+cave in. So why not Nagel?
+
+He looked skyward. The stars reminded him of glittering chunks of ice in
+some celestial freezebox. He moved his arms vigorously, conscious of the
+bitter cold gnawing at his bones--sharp needles stabbing his arms and
+legs. He was cold, yet his body felt clammy. He became conscious of a
+dull ache at the nape of his neck. Thought of the warhead stirred him to
+action.
+
+"We gotta fill this baby," he said, speaking to no one in particular.
+"Oxygen ... food ... gear. There's not much time left."
+
+Larkwell snickered. "You can say that again."
+
+Crag said thinly: "Well make it." He looked sympathetically at Nagel.
+
+"Come on, Gordon. We gotta move."
+
+Crag kept the men close together, in single file, with Larkwell leading.
+He was followed by Nagel. Crag brought up at the rear. Memory of
+Prochaska's fate burned in his mind and he kept his attention riveted on
+the men ahead of him. They trudged through the night, slowly; wearily
+following the serpentine path toward Bandit. He occasionally flicked on
+his torch, splaying it over the column, checking the positions of the
+men ahead of him. They rounded the end of a rill, half-circled the base
+of a small knoll, winding their way toward Bandit. Overhead Altair
+formed a great triangle with Deneb and Vega. Antares gleamed red from
+the heart of Scorpius. Off to one side lay Sagittarius, the Archer. He
+thought that the giant hollow of Arzachel must be the loneliest spot in
+all the universe. He felt numbed, drained of all motion.
+
+"Commander."
+
+The single imperative call snapped him to attention.
+
+"Come quick. Something's wrong with Nagel!"
+
+Crag leaped ahead, flashing his torch. He saw Richter's form bent over a
+recumbent figure while his mind registered the fact that it was the
+German's voice he had heard. He leaped to his side, keeping his eyes
+pinned on Richter until he saw the man's hands were empty. He knelt by
+Nagel--his suit was inflated! Crag breathed easier. He said briefly:
+"Exhaustion."
+
+Richter nodded. An odd rumble sounded in Crag's earphones, rising and
+falling. It took him a moment to realize it was Nagel snoring. He rose,
+in a secret sweat of mingled relief and apprehension, and looked down at
+the recumbent form, thankful they were near Bandit.
+
+Larkwell grunted, "Gets tougher all the time."
+
+It took the three of them to get Nagel back to the rocket. Crag
+pressurized the cabin and opened the sleeping man's face plate. He
+continued to snore, his lips vibrating with each exhalation. While he
+slept they gulped down food and freshened up. When they were ready to
+start transferring oxygen to Red Dog, Nagel was still out. Crag
+hesitated, reluctant to leave him alone. The move could be fatal--if
+Nagel were the saboteur. But if it were Larkwell, he might find himself
+pitted against two men. The outlook wasn't encouraging. He cast one more
+glance at the recumbent figure and made up his mind.
+
+"He'll be out for a long time," Larkwell commented, as if reading his
+mind.
+
+"Yeah." Crag replaced Nagel's oxygen cylinder with a fresh one, closed
+his face plate and opened the pressure valve on his suit He waited until
+the others were ready and depressurized the cabin. He climbed down the
+ladder thinking he would have to return before the oxygen in Nagel's
+cylinder was exhausted.
+
+Each man carried three cylinders. When they reached Red Dog, Larkwell
+scrambled down into the rill and moved the oxygen cylinders, which Crag
+and Richter lowered, into the rocket through the new airlock. They
+increased the load to four cylinders each on the following trip, a
+decision Crag regretted long before they reached Red Dog. It was a
+nightmarish, body-breaking trek that left him staggering with sheer
+fatigue. He marveled at Larkwell and Richter. Both were small men
+physically. Small but tough, he thought. Tough and durable.
+
+Nagel was awake, waiting for them when they returned for another load.
+He greeted them with a slightly sheepish look. "Guess I caved in."
+
+"That you did," Crag affirmed. "Not that I can blame you. I'm just about
+at that point myself."
+
+Nagel spoke listlessly. "Alpine sent a message."
+
+"Oh?" Crag waited expectantly.
+
+"Colonel Gotch. He said the latest figures indicated the rocket would
+strike south of Alphons at 1350 hours."
+
+South of Alphons? How far south? It would be close, Crag thought Maybe
+too close. Maybe by south of Alphons Gotch meant Arzachel. Well, in that
+case his worries would be over. He looked at the master chrono. Time for
+two more trips--if they hurried.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They were making their last trip to Bandit.
+
+Larkwell led the way with Crag bringing up the rear. They trudged
+slowly, tiredly, haunted by the shortness of time, yet they had pushed
+themselves to their limit. They simply couldn't move faster.
+
+Strange, Crag thought, there's a rocket in the sky--a warhead, a nuclear
+bomb hurtling down from the vastness of space--slanting in on its target
+The target: Adam Crag and crew. If we survive this ... what next? The
+question haunted him. How much could they take? Specifically, how much
+could _he_ take? He shook the mood off. He'd take what he had to take.
+
+He thought: _One more load and we'll hole up._ The prospect of ending
+their toil perked up his spirits. During the time of the bomb they'd
+sleep--sleep. Sleep and eat and rest and sleep some more.
+
+Halfway to Bandit he suddenly sensed something wrong. Richter's form,
+ahead, was a black shadow. Beyond him, Nagel was a blob of movement. He
+flicked his torch on, shooting its beams into the darkness beyond the
+oxygen man. Larkwell--there was no sign of Larkwell. He quickened his
+pace, weaving the light back and forth on both sides of their path.
+
+"Larkwell?" His voice was imperative.
+
+No answer.
+
+"Larkwell?" Silence mocked him. Richter stopped short. Nagel turned,
+coming toward him in the night.
+
+"Where's Larkwell?"
+
+"He was ahead of me." It was Nagel.
+
+Richter shrugged. "Can't see that far ahead."
+
+Crag's thoughts came in a jumbled train. Had Larkwell been hit by a
+meteorite? No, they would have seen him fall.
+
+"Must have drawn ahead," Richter observed quietly. There was something
+in his voice that disturbed Crag.
+
+"Why doesn't he answer?" Nagel cut in. "Why? why?"
+
+"Larkwell! Larkwell, answer me!" Silence. A great silence. A suspicion
+struck his mind. Crag caught his breath, horrified at the thought.
+
+"Let's get moving--fast." He struck out in the direction of Bandit,
+forcing his tired legs into a trot. His boots struck against the plain,
+shooting needles of pain up his legs. His body grew sweaty and clammy,
+hot and cold by turn. A chill foreboding gripped him. He tried to light
+the way with his torch. The rocks made elusive shadows--shadows that
+danced, receded, grew and shortened by turn, until he couldn't
+discriminate between shadow and rock. He stumbled--fell heavily--holding
+his breath fearfully until he was re-assured his suit hadn't ripped.
+After that he slowed his pace, moving more carefully. His torch was a
+yellow eye preceding him across the plain.
+
+Bandit rose before him, jutting against the stars, an ominous black
+shadow. He moved his light, playing it over the plain. Larkwell--where
+was Larkwell? The yellow beam caressed the rocket, wandering over its
+base.
+
+Something was wrong--dreadfully wrong. It took him an instant to realize
+that the rope ladder had vanished. He swung the torch upward. Its yellow
+beams framed Larkwell's body against the hatch.
+
+"Larkwell." Crag called imperiously.
+
+The figure in the hatch didn't move. Richter came up and stood beside
+him. Crag cast a helpless glance at him. The German was silent,
+motionless, his face turned upward toward the space cabin as if he were
+lost in contemplation. Crag called again, anger in his voice. There was
+a moment of silence before a voice tinkled in his earphones.
+
+"Larkwell? There's no Larkwell here." The words were spoken slowly,
+tauntingly.
+
+Crag snapped wrathfully: "This is no time to be joking. Toss that ladder
+down and make it quick." The silence mocked him for a long moment before
+Larkwell answered.
+
+"I'm not joking, Mister Crag." He emphasized the word _Mister_. "There
+is no Larkwell. At least, not here."
+
+A fearful premonition came to Crag. He turned toward Richter. The German
+hadn't moved. He touched his arm and began edging back until he was well
+clear of the base of the rocket. Nagel stood off to one side, seeming
+helpless and forlorn in the drama being enacted. Crag marshaled his
+thoughts.
+
+"Larkwell?"
+
+"My name is Malin ... if it interest you, Mister Crag. Igor Malin." The
+words were spoken in a jeer.
+
+Crag felt the anger well inside him. All the pent-up emotion he had
+suppressed since leaving earth boiled volcanically until his body shook
+like a leaf. The scar on his face tingled, burned, and he involuntarily
+reached to rub it before remembering his helmet. He waited until the
+first tremors had passed, then spoke, trying to keep his voice calm.
+
+"You're disturbed, Larkwell. You don't know what you're doing."
+
+"No? You think not?"
+
+Crag bit his lip vexedly. He spoke again:
+
+"So, you're our saboteur?"
+
+"Call me that, if you wish."
+
+"And a damned traitor!"
+
+"Not a traitor, Mister Crag. To the contrary, I have been very faithful
+to my country."
+
+"You're a traitor," Crag stated coldly.
+
+"Come, be reasonable. A traitor is one who betrays his country. You work
+for your side ... I work for mine. It's as simple as that." He spoke
+languidly but Crag knew he was laughing at him. He made an effort to
+control his his temper.
+
+"You were born in the United States," Crag pursued.
+
+"Wrong again."
+
+"Raised in the Maple Hill Orphanage. I have your personnel record."
+
+"Ah, that _was_ your Martin Larkwell." The voice taunted. "But I became
+Martin Larkwell one sunny day in Buenos Aires. Part of, shall we say, a
+well planned tactic? No, I am not your Martin Larkwell, Mister Crag. And
+I'm happy enough to be able to shed his miserable identity."
+
+"What do you expect to gain?" Crag asked. He kept his voice reasonable,
+hedging for time.
+
+"Come, now, Mister Crag, you know the stakes. The moon goes to the
+country whose living representative is based here when the U.N. makes
+its decision--which should be soon. Note that I said _living_."
+
+"Most of the supplies are in Red Dog," Crag pointed out.
+
+"There's enough here for one man." The voice was maddeningly bland in
+Crag's earphones.
+
+"You won't live through the rockstorm," Crag promised savagely.
+
+"The chances of a direct hit are pretty remote. You said that yourself."
+
+"Maybe...."
+
+"That's good enough for me."
+
+"Damn you, Larkwell, you can't do this. Throw that ladder down." It was
+Nagel. Again the scream came over the earphones: "Throw it down, I say."
+
+"You've made a mistake," Crag cut in calmly. "We can survive. There's
+enough oxygen in Red Dog."
+
+"I opened each cylinder you handed down," the man in the hatch stated
+matter-of-factly. "In fact, I opened all of the cylinders in Red Dog.
+Sorry, Mister Crag, but the oxygen's all gone. Soon you'll follow
+Prochaska."
+
+"You did that?" Crag's voice was a savage growl.
+
+"This is war, Mister Crag. Prochaska was an enemy." He spoke almost
+conversationally. Crag had the feeling that everyone was crazy. It was a
+fantastic mixed-up dream, a nightmare. Soon he'd awaken....
+
+"Coward!" Nagel screamed. "Coward--damned coward!"
+
+The figure in the hatch vanished into the rocket. He's armed! Crag's
+mind seized on die knowledge that two automatic rifles were still in
+Bandit. He ordered the men back, alarmed. Nagel stood his ground
+screaming maledictions.
+
+"Come back, Gordon," Crag snapped.
+
+Malin reappeared a few seconds later holding a rifle. Crag snapped his
+torch off, leaving the plain in darkness.
+
+"Move back," he ordered again.
+
+"I won't. I'm going to get into that rocket," Nagel babbled. He lunged
+forward and was lost in the darkness before Crag could stop him.
+
+"Nagel, get back here! That's an order."
+
+"I won't ... I won't!" His scream was painful in Crag's ears.
+
+A yellow beam flashed down from the hatch and ran over the ground at the
+base of the rocket. It stopped, pinning Nagel in a circle of light. His
+face was turned up. He was cursing wildly, violently.
+
+"Nagel!" Crag shouted a warning. Nagel shook his fist toward the hatch
+still screaming. Flame spurted from the black rectangle and he fell,
+crumpled on the plain.
+
+"Move further back," Richter said quietly.
+
+Crag stood indecisively.
+
+Richter spoke more imperatively. "He's gone. Move back--while you can."
+
+"Happy dreams, Mister Crag ... and a long sleep." The hatch closed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 21
+
+
+Nagel was dead. He lay sprawled in the ash, a pitifully small limp
+bundle in a deflated suit. He had gotten his wish--he would never see
+earth again. _Under the wide and starry sky_ ... Now he was asleep with
+his dream. Asleep in the fantastically bizarre world he had come to
+love. But the fact still remained: Nagel had been murdered. Murdered in
+cold blood. Murdered by the killer of little Max Prochaska. And now the
+killer was in command! Crag looked down at the crumpled body, reliving
+the scene, feeling it burn in his brain.
+
+Finally he rose, filled with a terrible cold anger.
+
+"There's one thing he forgot...."
+
+"What?" Richter asked.
+
+"The cylinders in Drone Baker. We didn't move them."
+
+He looked at his oxygen gauge. Low. Baker lay almost four miles to the
+east on a trail seldom used. They had never traversed it by night.
+Baker, in fact, had become the forgotten drone. He probed his mind.
+There was a spur of intervening rock ... rills ... a twisty trail
+threading between lofty pinnacles....
+
+"Well have to hurry," Richter urged.
+
+"Let's move...."
+
+They started toward the east, walking silently, side by side, their
+former relationship forgotten. Crag accepted the fact that their
+survival, the success of his mission--Gotch's well-laid plans--could
+very well depend upon what Richter did. Or didn't do. He had suddenly
+become an integral part in the complex machine labeled STEP ONE.
+
+They reached the ridge which lay between them and the drone and started
+upward, climbing slowly, silently, measuring distance against time in
+which time represented life-sustaining oxygen. The climb over the ridge
+proved extremely hazardous. Despite their torches they more than once
+brushed sharp needles of rock and stumbled over low jagged extrusions.
+They were panting heavily before they reached the crest and started down
+the opposite side. They reached the plain and Crag checked his oxygen
+gauge. The reading alarmed him. He didn't say anything to Richter but
+speeded his pace. The German's breath became a hoarse rumble in the
+earphones.
+
+"Stop!" There was consternation in Richter's warning cry. Crag
+simultaneously saw the chasm yawning almost at their feet.
+
+Richter said quietly: "Which way?"
+
+"Damned if I know." Crag flashed his torch into the rill. It was wide
+and deep, a cleft with almost vertical sides. They would have to go
+around it. He flashed the light in both directions along the plain.
+There was no visible end to the fissure.
+
+He studied the stars briefly and said, "East is to our right. We'll have
+to work along the rill and gamble that it ends soon."
+
+It did. They rounded its end and resumed their way toward the east. Crag
+had to stop several times to get his bearings. The shadows danced before
+the torch beams confusing him, causing odd illusions. He fell to
+navigating by the stars. It occurred to him that Baker, measured against
+the expanse of the plain, would be but a speck of dust.
+
+Richter's voice broke reflectively into his earphones, "Oxygen's about
+gone. Looks like this place is going to wind up a graveyard."
+
+Crag said stubbornly: "We'll make it."
+
+"It better be soon...."
+
+"We should be about there."
+
+They topped a small rise and dropped back to the plain. The needle of
+Drone Baker punctuated the sky--blotted out the stars. Oxygen ...
+oxygen. The word was sweet music. He broke into a run, reached its base
+and clawed at the ladder leading to its hold. He got inside panting
+heavily, conscious of a slightly dizzy feeling, and grabbed the first
+cylinder he saw. He hooked it into his suit system before looking down
+toward the plain. Richter was not in sight. Filled with alarm he grabbed
+another cylinder and hurried down the ladder. His torch picked up
+Richter's form near the base of the rocket. He hooked the cylinder into
+his suit system and turned the valve, hoping he was in time, then
+flashed his torch on the German's face. He seemed to be breathing. Crag
+called experimentally into the earphone, without answer. He finally
+snapped off the torch to conserve the battery and waited, his mind a
+jumble of thoughts.
+
+"Commander...?"
+
+"Good. I was scared for a moment." He flashed the torch down. Richter's
+eyes were open; he was smiling faintly.
+
+"Not a bad way to go," he managed to say. "Nice and easy."
+
+"The only place you're going is Red Dog."
+
+"I'll be okay in a minute."
+
+"Sure you will."
+
+Richter struggled to his feet breathing deeply. "I'm okay."
+
+"We'd better get some more oxygen--enough to last through the
+fireworks," Crag suggested.
+
+They returned to the drone and procured eight cylinders, lowering them
+with a piece of line supplied for the purpose. They climbed down to the
+plain, packed the cylinders and started for Red Dog.
+
+"Going to be close but we'll make it," Crag said, thinking of the
+warhead.
+
+Richter answered confidently: "We'll make it."
+
+Strange, Crag thought, I wind up fighting with the enemy to keep one of
+my own crew from murdering me. Enemy? No, he could no longer brand
+Richter an enemy. He felt a pang of regret over the way he'd mistrusted
+him. Still, there had been no other course. A thought jolted him. He
+spoke casually, aware he might be stepping on Richter's toes: "There's
+one thing I don't understand...."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Larkwell's an enemy agent...." He hesitated.
+
+"And...?"
+
+"Why didn't he attempt to solicit your aid?" Crag finished bluntly.
+
+"You're a spaceman, Commander, not an intelligence agent."
+
+"I don't get the connection."
+
+"An agent trusts no one. And a saboteur is the lone wolf of the agents.
+Trust me? Ha! He'd just as soon trust your good Colonel Gotch. No,
+Larkwell wouldn't have trusted me. Never."
+
+Crag was silent. An agent who couldn't trust a soldier of his own
+country, even when the chips were down? It was a philosophy he couldn't
+understand. As for Larkwell! He vowed he'd live long enough to see him
+dead. More, he'd kill him himself. He was planning how he'd accomplish
+it when they reached the rill where Red Dog was buried. He switched his
+torch on and ran it along the edge of the chasm until he located the
+rope ladder leading down to the airlock.
+
+"You lower 'em and I'll pack 'em." Crag ordered. He descended into the
+rill and began moving the cylinders Richter lowered to him. Finished, he
+examined the cylinders they had brought earlier. Empty! His lips set in
+a thin line as he examined the cylinders which the rocket had brought
+from earth. Empty ... all empty. Larkwell had done a thorough job.
+
+He gritted his teeth. Before he was through he'd ram the empty cylinders
+down Larkwell's throat. Yeah, and that wasn't all. He contemplated the
+step-by-step procedure. Larkwell would die. Die horribly. He looked
+toward the hatch wondering what was detaining Richter. He waited a
+moment, then climbed back to the plain. The German was nowhere in sight.
+
+"Richter?" There was no answer. He checked his interphone to make sure
+it was working and called again. Silence. He swept his torch over the
+plain. No Richter. The German had vanished ... disappeared into the
+black maw of the crater.
+
+"Richter! Richter, answer me...!" Silence. Apprehension swept him. He
+called again, desperately:
+
+"Richter!"
+
+"I'm all right, Commander." Richter's voice was low, seeming to have
+come from a distance. "You'd better get back into Red Dog."
+
+"Where are you?" Crag demanded.
+
+"I have a job to do."
+
+"Come back." The German didn't answer. Crag was about to start in
+pursuit when he realized he didn't have the faintest idea what direction
+Richter had taken. He hesitated, baffled and fearful by turn.
+
+Periodically he called his name without receiving an answer. He fumed,
+wondering what the German had in mind. He couldn't get into Bandit and,
+besides, he was unarmed. He popped back into Red Dog and looked at the
+chrono. If Gotch's figures were right the warhead would strike in four
+minutes. He climbed out of the rill.
+
+"Warhead due in less than four minutes," he called into his mike.
+
+"Get back into Red Dog, Commander," Richter insisted.
+
+Crag snapped irritably: "What the hell are you trying to do."
+
+"Commander, many people have crossed the frontier--from East to West.
+Many others have wanted to."
+
+"I don't get you."
+
+"I had to come all the way to Arzachel to find my frontier, Commander."
+
+"Richter, come back," Crag ordered, his voice level.
+
+"There's nothing you can do. You didn't know it but when I landed here I
+crossed the frontier, Commander. I went from East to West, on the moon."
+
+"Richter...?"
+
+"Now I am free."
+
+"I don't know what you're talking about, but you'd better get back
+here--and pronto. You'll get massacred if you're on the plain when the
+rocket hits." Inwardly he was shaken. "There's not a damn thing you can
+do about Larkwell."
+
+"Ah, but there is. He forgot two things, Commander. The oxygen in Baker
+was only the first."
+
+"And the second?"
+
+Richter did not answer.
+
+Crag called again. No answer. He waited, uncertain what to do next.
+
+The ground twisted violently under his feet. The warhead! A series of
+diminishing quakes rolled the plain in sharp jolts. Missed Arzachel, he
+thought jubilantly. It missed ... missed. He twisted his head upward.
+The sky was black, black, a great black spread that reached to infinity,
+broken only by the brilliance of the stars. Off to one side Betelgeuse
+was a baleful red eye in the shoulder of Orion.
+
+A picture of what was happening flashed through his mind. Somewhere
+between Alphons and Arzachel thousands of tons of rock were hurtling
+upward in great ballistic trajectories, parabolic courses which would
+bring them crashing back onto the lunar surface. Many would escape,
+would hurtle through space until infinity ended. Some would be caught in
+the gravisphere of planets, would crash down into strange worlds. But
+most would smash back on the moon. Rocks ranging in size from grains of
+dust to giants capable of smashing skyscrapers would fall like rain.
+
+"Richter! Richter!" He repeated the call several times. No answer. He
+swept his torch futilely over the plain. Richter was a dedicated man. If
+the coming rain of death held any fears for him he failed to show it. He
+looked up again, fancying that he saw movement against the stars.
+Somewhere up there mountains were hurtling through the void. He
+hurriedly descended into the rill, hesitated, then moved into the
+rocket. He again hesitated before leaving the airlock open. Richter
+might return.
+
+After a while he felt the first thud, a jolt that shook the rocket and
+traveled through his body like a wave. The floor danced under his feet.
+He held his breath expectantly, suppressing an instant of panic. The
+rocket vibrated several times but none of the jolts was as severe as the
+first. He waited, aware of the stillness, a silence so deep it was like
+a great thunder. The big stuff must all be down. The thought bolstered
+his courage. The idea of being squashed like a bug was not appealing. He
+waited, wondering if Richter had survived. He thought of Larkwell and
+involuntarily clenched his fists. Larkwell, or Igor Malin--if he
+lived--would be his first order of business. He remembered Nagel and
+Prochaska and began planning how he would kill the man in Bandit. He
+waited a while longer. The absolute silence grated his ears. Now, he
+thought.
+
+He slipped on a fresh oxygen cylinder, and hooked a spare into his belt,
+then pawed through the supplies until he found fresh batteries for his
+torch. Finally he got one of the automatic rifles from Red Dog's
+arsenal. After that he climbed up to the plain. He called Richter's name
+several times over the phones, with little hope of answer. He looked at
+the sky, then swept his torch over the moonscape. A feeling of solitude
+assailed him. For the first time since leaving earth he was totally
+alone.
+
+The last time he had experienced such a feeling was when he'd pushed an
+experimental rocket ship almost to the edge of space. He shook off the
+feeling and debated what to do. Richter undoubtedly was dead. Had
+Larkwell--or was it Malin?--survived the rock storm? Spurred to action,
+he turned toward Bandit. Nothing seemed changed, he thought, or almost
+nothing. Here and there the smooth ash was pitted. Once he came to a
+jagged rock which lay almost astride his path. He was sure it hadn't
+been there before.
+
+He moved more cautiously as he drew near Bandit, remembering that the
+occupant of the rocket was armed. He climbed a familiar knoll, searching
+the plain ahead with his torch. He stopped, puzzled, flashing the light
+to check his bearings. Satisfied he was on the right knoll he played the
+light ahead again while moving down to the plain. He walked slowly
+forward. Once he dropped to the ground to see if he could discern the
+bulk of Bandit against the stars. Finally he walked faster, sweeping the
+torch over the plain in wide arcs. Suddenly he stopped. Gone! Bandit was
+gone! It couldn't be. It might be demolished, smashed flat, but it
+couldn't disappear. He wondered if he were having hallucinations. No, he
+was sane ... completely sane. He began calling Richter's name. The
+silence mocked him. Finally he turned back toward Red Dog.
+
+Crag slept. He slept with the airlock closed and the cabin flooded with
+oxygen. He slept the sleep of the dead, a luxurious sleep without
+thought or dream. When he awakened, he ate and donned the pressure suit,
+thinking he would have to get more oxygen from the drone. He opened the
+hatch and scrambled out. The plain was light. The sun was an intolerable
+circle hanging at the very edge of the horizon. He blinked his eyes to
+get them used to the glare.
+
+He studied the plain for a long time, then hefted the rifle and started
+toward Bandit before he remembered there was no Bandit. No Bandit? When
+he reached the top of the knoll, he knew he was right. Bandit
+unaccountably was gone. He searched the area in wide circles. The
+question grew in his mind. He found several twisted pieces of metal--a
+jagged piece of engine. Abruptly he found Richter.
+
+He was dead. His suit hung limp, airless against his body. He stared at
+the object next to Richter. It was a moment before he recognized it as
+the rocket launcher.
+
+"_He forgot two things, Commander...._"
+
+Now he understood Richter's words. Now he knew the motive that had
+driven him onto the plain in the face of the rock storm. Richter had
+used the launcher to destroy Bandit, to destroy the murderer of
+Prochaska and Nagel. He marveled that Richter could have carried the
+heavy weapon. Once, before, he had watched two men struggle under its
+weight Richter must have mustered every ounce of his strength.
+
+He looked at the fallen form for a long time. Richter had crossed his
+frontier. At last he turned and started toward Red Dog. Adam Crag, the
+Man in the Moon. Now he was really the Man in the Moon. The only Man.
+Colonel Crag, Commanding Officer, Pickering Field. General Crag of the
+First Moon expeditionary Force. Adam Crag, Emperor of Luna. He
+laughed--a mirthless laugh. Damned if he couldn't be anything he wanted
+to be--on the Moon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The sun climbed above the rim of Arzachel transforming the vast
+depressed interior of the crater into a caldron of heat and glare. In
+the morning of the lunar day the rock structures rising from the plain
+cast lengthy black shadows over the ashy floor--a mosaic in black and
+white. Crag kept busy. He stripped the drones of their scant amount of
+usable supplies--mainly oxygen cylinders from Baker--and set up a new
+communication post in Red Dog. In the first hours of the new morning
+Gotch named the saboteur. Crag listened, wearily. Just then he wasn't
+interested in the fact that an alert intelligence agent had doubted that
+a man of 5' 5" could have been a star basketball player, as the
+Superintendent of the Maple Hill Orphanage had said. He expressed his
+feelings by shutting off the communicator in the middle of the Colonel's
+explanation.
+
+The sun climbed, slowly, until it hung overhead, ending a morning which
+had lasted seven earth days in length. At midday the shadows had all but
+vanished. He finished marking the last of three crosses and stepped back
+to survey his work. He read the names at the head of the mounds: Max
+Prochaska, Gordon Nagel, Otto Richter. Each was followed by a date. Out
+on the plain were other graves, those of the crewmen of Bandit and Red
+Dog. He had marked each mound with a small pile of stones. Later it
+struck him that someday there might be peace. Someday, someone might
+want to look at one of those piles of stone. He returned and added a
+notation to each.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The sun moved imperceptibly across the sky. It seemed to hover above the
+horizon for a long while before slipping beyond the rim. Night seemed
+eternal. Crag worked and slept and waited. He measured his oxygen,
+rationed his food, and planned. He was tough. He'd survive. If only to
+read Gotch off, he promised himself savagely.
+
+The sun came up again. In time it set. Rose and set.
+
+Crag waited.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He watched the silvery ship let down. It backed down slowly, gracefully,
+coming to rest on the ashy plain with scarcely a jar. Somehow he didn't
+feel jubilant. He waited, gravely, watching the figures that came from
+the ship. He wasn't surprised that the first one was Colonel Michael
+Gotch.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Later they gathered in the small crew room of the Astronaut, the name of
+the first atom-powered spaceship. They waited solemnly--Gotch and Crag,
+the pilot, and two crewmen--waiting for the thin man to speak. Just now
+he was sitting at the small pulldown chow table peering at some papers,
+records of the moon expedition. Finally he looked up.
+
+"It seems to me that your Nation's claim to the Moon is justified," he
+said. The words were fateful. The thin man's name was Fredrick Gunter.
+He was also Secretary-General of the United Nations.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Jeff Sutton, although experienced in journalistic and technical
+    writings, has only recently turned his hand to novels with the
+    result that _First on the Moon_ is also his first novel. A native
+    Californian, and a Marine veteran, he is presently employed as a
+    research engineer for Convair-San Diego, specializing appropriately
+    enough for this novel in problems of high altitude survival. He says
+    of himself:
+
+    "I have long been a science-fiction reader (a common ailment among
+    scientists and engineers). On the personal side, a number of factors
+    have coalesced to pin me to the typewriter. I am living in--and
+    working in--a world of missiles, rockets, and far-reaching dreams.
+    In many areas the border between science-fiction and science
+    suddenly has become a lace curtain. It is a world I have some
+    acquaintance with--and fits very nicely into my desire to write."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+                     SCIENCE-FICTION AT ITS BEST
+
+                  Luna Was The Goal, Earth The Prize
+
+     It was a top secret, and yet the enemy knew. They knew that the
+     Americans were about to send a manned rocket to the moon and
+     thereby claim it for Old Glory. They knew also that whoever held
+     the moon would command the Earth ... and they were determined to
+     stop us at all costs!
+
+     When assassination and sabotage failed to stop the take-off, they'd
+     have to use even more drastic measures. There might be an H-bomb
+     loaded rocket missile, there could be a Red spaceship with a
+     suicide crew, and there was always the possibility of their placing
+     a spy aboard the U.S. rocket.
+
+     FIRST ON THE MOON is a thrilling adventure of the very near future.
+     Written with up-to-the-minute accuracy by a professional aviation
+     research engineer, it is a top-notch novel that is science-fiction
+     only by the thinnest margin!
+
+                              AN ACE BOOK
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of First on the Moon, by Jeff Sutton
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43235 ***