Under the wide and starry skyOh, dig the grave and let me lie ...
Under the wide and starry skyOh, 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."
"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."
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.
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 asshe. 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.
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 couldhetake? 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 wordMister. "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, thatwasyour 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 saidliving."
"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.