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."
"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.
"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.
"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 healwaysattended 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.