Jeff Sutton (11 page)

It
occurred to him then that he was not the real victor. That honor belonged to a
man 240,000 miles away. Cotch had won the moon. It had been the opaque-eyed
Colonel who had directed the conquest. He, Crag, was merely a foot soldier.
Just one of the troops.
All at once he felt humble.

Prochaska
came down next, followed by Nagel. Larkwell was last. They stood in a
half-circle looking at each other, awed by the thing they had done. No one
spoke. They shifted their eyes outward, hungrily over the plain, marveling at
the world they had inherited. It was a bleak, hostile world encompassed in a bowl
whose vast depressed interior alternately was burned and frozen by turn. To
their north the rim of Arzachel towered ten thousand feet, falling away as it
curved over the horizon to the east and west. The plain to the south was a flat
expanse of gray punctuated by occasional rocky knolls and weird, needle-sharp
pinnacles, some of which towered to awesome heights.

Southeast
a long narrow spur of rock rose and crawled over the floor of the crater for
several miles before it dipped again into its ashy bed. Crag calculated that a
beeline to Bandit would just about skirt the southeast end of the spur. Another
rock formation dominated the middle-expanse of the plain to the south. It rose,
curving over the crater floor like the spinal column of some gigantic lizard—a
great crescent with its horns pointed toward their present position. Prochaska
promptiy dubbed it "Backbone Ridge," a name that stuck.

Crag suddenly remembered what he had to do,
and coughed meaningfully into his hp mike. The group fell silent. He faced the
distant northern cliffs and began to speak:

"I, Adam Crag, by the authority vested
in me by the Government of the United States of America, do hereby claim this
land, and all the lands of the moon, as legal territory of the United States
of America, to be a dominion of the United States of America, subject to its-
Government and laws."

When
he finished, he was quiet for a minute. "For the record, this is Pickering
Field. I think he'd like that," he added. There was a lump in his throat

Prochaska
said quietly, "Gotch will like it, too. Hadn't we better record that and
transmit it to Alpine?"

"It's
already recorded." Crag grinned.
"All but the
Pickering Field part.
Gotch wrote it out himself."

"Confident bastard."
Larkwell smiled. "He had a lot more
faith than I did."

"Especially
the way you brought that stovepipe down," Nagel interjected. There was a
moment of startled silence.

Prochaska said coldly.
"I hope you do your job as well."

Nagel looked provocatively at him but didn't
reply.

Larkwell
had been studying the terrain. "Wish Able had made it," he said
wistfully. "I'd like to get started on that airlock. It's going to be a
honey to build."

"Amen."
Crag swept his eyes over the ashy surface. "The scientists figure that
falling meteorites may be our biggest hazard."

"Not
if we follow the plan of building our airlock in a rill," Larkwell
interjected. "Then the only danger would be from stuff coining straight
down."

"Agreed.
But the fact remains that we lost Able. Well have to chance living in
the Aztec until Drone Baker arrives."

"If it makes it"

"It'll make it," Crag answered with
certainty. Their safe landing had boosted his confidence. They'd land Baker and
Charlie, in that order, he thought. They'd locate a shallow rill; then they'd build
an airlock to protect, them against chance meteorites. That's the way they'd do
it; one
two .
.
three
.
   
. .

"We've
got it whipped," Prochaska observed, but his voice didn't hold the
certainty of his words.

Crag
said, "I was wondering if we couldn't assess the danger. It might not be
so great . . ."

"How?"
Prochaska asked curiously.

"No
wind, no air, no external forces to disturb the ash
mande
,
except for meteorites. Any strike would leave a trace. We might smooth off a
given area and check for hits after a couple of days. That would give some idea
of the danger." He faced Prochaska.

"What do you
think?"

"But the ash itself is
meteorite dust," he protested.

"We
could at least chart the big hits—those large enough to damage the
rocket."

"Well know if any
hit," Larkwell prophesied grimly.

"Maybe
not;" Nagel cut
in ."
Supposing
it's
pinhole size? The air could seep out and we wouldn't
know it until too late."

Crag said decisively. "That means well
have to mnintflin a watch over the pressure gauge."

"That
won't help if it's a big chunk." Prochaska scraped his toe through the
ash. "The possibility's sort of disconcerting."

"Too damned many occupational hazards
for me," Lark-well ventured. "I must have had rocks in my head when I
volunteered for this one."

"All brawn and no brain."
Crag gave a wry smile. "That's the kind
of fodder that's needed for deep space."

Prochaska said, "We ought to let Gotch
know he's just acquired a few more acres."

"Right"
Crag
hesitated
a moment "Then well check out on
Bandit."

"Why?" Larkwell
asked.

"There might be some
survivors."

"Let them rot"
Nagel growled.

"That's
for me to decide," Crag said coldly. He stared hard at the oxygen man.
"We're still human."

Nagel snapped,
"They're damned murderers."

"That's
no reason we should be." Crag turned back toward the ladder. When he
reached it, he paused and looked skyward. The sun was a precise circle of
intolerable white light set amid the ebony of space. The stars seemed very
close.

The
space cabin was a vacuum. At Nagel's suggestion they kept pressure to a
minimum
to preserve oxygen. When they were out of
their suits, Prochaska got on the radio. He had difficulty raising Alpine Base,
working for several minutes before he got an answering
si
gnal,
When
the connection was made, Crag moved into
Prochaska's place and switched to his ear insert microphone. He listened to the
faint slightly metallic voice for a moment before he identified it as Gotch's.
He thought:
The
Old Man must be living in the radio shack.
He adjusted his headset and sent a lengthy
report.

If
Gotch were jubilant over the fruition of his dream, he carefully concealed it.
He congratulated Crag and the crew, speaking in precise formal terms, and
almost immediately launched into a barrage of questions regarding their next
step. The Colonel's reaction nettled him. Lord, he should be
jubilant
.
.
jumping
with joy . .
waltzing
the telephone gal. Instead he was speaking with a business-as-usual manner.
Gotch left it up to Crag on whether or not to attempt a rescue expedition.

"But
not if it endangers the expedition in any way," he added. He informed him
that Drone Baker had been launched without mishap. "Just be ready for
her," he cautioned. "And again—congratulations
,-
Commander." There was a pause
..

"I
think Pickering Field is a
fitting name." The voice in the earphones died away and Crag found himself
listening to the static of space. He pulled the sets off and turned to Nagel.

"How much oxygen would a man need for a
round trip to Bandit, assuming a total distance of seven
miles.
"
"It's not that far," Prochaska reminded. "There might be
detours."

Nagel
calculated rapidly. "An extra cylinder would do it."

"Okay,
Larkwell and IT1 go. You and Prochaska stand by." Crag caught the
surprised look on the Chiefs face.

"There
might be communication problems," he explained. Privately, he had decided
that no man would be left alone until the mystery of the time bomb was cleared
up.

Prochaska
nodded. The arrangement made sense. Nagel appeared pleased that he didn't have
to make the long trek. Larkwell, on the other hand, seemed glad to have been
chosen.

CHAPTER 0

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 hps 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 outl

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 well have to get
used to." He let his eyes linger on the plain. It was washed with a
brilliant light which even then-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 LarkweD
and resumed his trek. He was trudging head down when he suddenly stopped. A
chasm yawned at his feet.