Jeff Sutton (17 page)

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 LarkweD
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 prompdy at exacdy 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 Cotch kept his
finger in the pie. Crag had the satisfaction of knowing he was available around
the clock. Consequendy, 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 Cotch.

"Drone
Charlie was launched at 0600," he told Crag. "Well 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: "Well do our
best"

"I know you will, Commander. I have
absolutely no fear on that score. How's everything going?" The twangy
voice across the abyss of space took on a solicitous tone that set his nerves
on edge. Something's wrong—something bad, he thought. The Colonel sounded like
a doctor asking a dying patient how he felt.

"Okay,
everything seems in hand. We've got the ship in good shape and Larkwell thinks
we might fare pretty well with the drone. It might be in better shape than we
first thought"

"Good,
good, glad to hear it. We need a silver lining once in a while, eh?"

"Yeah,
but I'm fairly certain you didn't call just to cheer me up," Crag said
dryly. "What's on your mind?" The silence came again, a little longer
this time.

CHAPTER 13

"You're in trouble
." Gotch spoke like a man carefully
choosing his words. "Intelligence informs us that another rocket's been
fired from east of the Caspian. BuNav's got a track on it" Crag waited.

"There
are two possibilities," Gotch continued. "The first and most logical
assumption is that it's manned. We surmise that from the fact that their first
manned rocket was successful—that is, as far as reaching the moon is concerned
The
assumption is further borne out by its trajectory and
rate of acceleration." His voice fell off.

"And the second
possibility?"
Crag prompted.

"Warhead,"
Gotch said succinctly. "Intelligence informs us that the enemy is prepared
to blow Arzachel off the face of the moon-if they fail to take it over. And
they have failed —so far." Crag tossed the idea around in his mind.

He said fretfully, "I doubt if they
could put a warhead down on Arzachel. That takes some doing. Hell,
it's
tough enough to monitor one in from here, let alone
smack from earth."

"I
think you're right, but they can try." Gotch's voice became brisk.
"Here's the dope as we see it. We think the rocket contains a landing
party for the purpose of establishing a moon base.
In
Arzachel, naturally, because that's where the lode is."

"More
to the point, you expect an attack on Pickering Base," Crag interjected.

"Well, yes, I think
that is a reasonable assumption. . . ."

Crag
weighed the information. Cotch was probably right. A nuclear explosion on the
moon would be detected on earth. That was the dangerous course—the shot that
could usher in World War III and perhaps a new cave era.

Attack
by a landing party seemed more logical
They
batted
ideas back and forth. The Colonel suggested that just before the landing phase
of Red Dog—the code name assigned the new rocket—Crag post armed guards at
some point covering the Aztec.

"Might
as well get some use out of Bandit's automatic weapons," Gotch dryly
concluded.

Crag
disagreed. He didn't think it likely that any attack would take the form of a
simple armed assault. "That would give us time to get off a message,"
he argued. "They can't afford that"

Gotch
pointed out that neither could they launch a missile while still in space.
"A homing weapon couldn't differentiate between Aztec, Baker and
Bandit," he said.

"But
they'd still have to have some sure fire quick-kill method," Crag
insisted.

"You may be right.
Have you a better plan?"

Crag
did, and outlined it in some detail. Gotch listened without comment until he
had finished.

"Could work," he
said finally. "However, it's going to shoot your schedule, even if you
could do it." "Why can't we?"

"You're
not supermen, Commander," he said tersely. "The psychiatrists here
inform us that your crew—as individuals—should be near the breaking point. We
know the cumulative strain. To be truthful with you, we've been getting gray
hair over that prospect"

"Nuts
to the psychiatrists," Crag declared with a certainty he didn't feel.
"Men don't break when their survival depends on their sanity."

"No?" The single
word came across the void, soft and low.

"We can do it,"
Crag persisted.

"All
right, I agree with the plan. I think you're wrong but you're the Commander in
the field." His voice was flat. "Good luck." He cut off abrupdy.

Crag
looked at the silent panel for a moment. Another problem, another solution
required. Maybe Cotch was right Maybe they'd all wind up as candidates for the
laughing academy—if they lived long enough. The thought didn't cheer him.
Well, he'd better get moving. There was a lot to be done. He looked up and saw
the question in Prochaska's eyes. Might as well tell him, he thought

He
repeated the information Gotch had given, together with his plan. Frochaska
listened quiedy, nodding from time to time. When he finished, they discussed
the pros and cons of Crag's proposed course of action. Frochaska thought it
would work. In the end they decided to pursue the plan without telling the
others the full story. It might be the breaking point, especially for Nagel,
and they would
be needing
a good oxygen, man in the
coming days. Crag got on the interphone and called LarkwelL who was working in
the tail section with the others.

"Judging
from what you've seen of Bandit, how long would it take to make it livable as
crew quarters?"

"Why?" he asked
querulously.

"I haven't time to go into that
now," Crag said evenly. "Just give me your best estimate."
"You can't make it livable. It's hot."

"Not
that hot. You've just got the radiation creeps. Let's have the estimate."

Larkwell
considered a moment. "There's quite a weld job on the hull, assuming we
could get the necessary patch metal from Bandit. We'd have to haul one helluva
lot of gear across that damned desert—"

"How
long?"
Crag cut in.

"Well, three days, at
least. But that's a minimum figure."

"That's
the figure you'll have to meet," Crag promised grimly. "Start now.
Use Nagel and Richter. Load up the gear you'll need and get in a trip before
chow."

"Now?"
Larkwell's voice was incredulous. "What about winding up this job
first? The airlock is damned important"

"Drop
it," Crag said briefly. There was silence at die other end of the
interphone.

"Okay," the
construction boss grumbled finally.

Crag
suggested that Prochaska make the first trip with them to look over Bandit's
electronic gear. He would need to know what repairs and modifications would be
necessary to make it usable. The Chief was delighted. It would mark the first
time he'd been out of the space cabin since the day of their landing.

Crag watched them leave through the port. It
was impossible to tell the crew members apart
In
their bulky garments. The extra oxygen and the tools Larkwell had selected
gave them an odd shambling gait, despite the low gravity. They plodded in
single file, winding slowly across the plain. The thought struck him that they
resembled grotesque life forms from some alien planet. For just a moment he
felt sorry, and a trifle guilty, over assigning

Nagel to the trip.
The oxygen man was already in a state of perpetual fatigue. Still, he
couldn't allow anyone the luxury of rest. Work was in the cards—grueling,
slavish toil if they were to survive.

It
struck Crag that this was a moment of great risk. Of the four figures plodding
toward Bandit, one was an enemy one a saboteur. Yet, what could either
accomplish by striking now? Nothing! Nor
while I live,
he thought. Strangely enough, Richter
bothered him more than the saboteur. There was a quality about the man he couldn't
decipher, an armor he couldn't penetrate. It occurred to him that, outwardly at
least, Richter was much like Prochaska—quiet, calm, steady. He performed the
tasks assigned him without question evinced no hostility, no resentment. He was
seemingly oblivious to Nagel's barbs and LarkwelTs occasional surly rebuffs.
On the face of the record he was an asset—a work horse who performed far more
labor than Nagel.

He
decided he couldn't write the German off as a factor to be continually
weighed—weighed and watched. He was no ordinary man. Of that he was
sure,
fuehrer's presence on the enemy's first moon rocket
was ample testimony of his stature. What were his thoughts?
His
plans?
What fires burned behind his placid countenance? Crag wished he
knew. One thing was certain. He could never lower his guard. Not for a second.

He
sighed and turned away from the viewport. A lot of data had piled up. He'd give
Alpine a Utile work to do to get Gotch off his neck. He reached for the
communicator thinking of Ann. Probably got someone else lined up by now, he
thought sourly.

Work on Bandit progressed slowly. Nagel
dragged through each successive work shift on the verge of exhaustion. Crag
expected him to
\coDapse
momentarily. His disintegration took
him
further and further from the group. He ate
silentiy, with eyes averted. He didn't protest the arduous hours, but the
amount of work he performed was negligible. Larkwell
m
aintain
ed
his stamina but had become
more
quiet
in the process. 'He seldom
smiled .
never
joked. Occasionally he was truculent or derisive,
referring to Bandit as the "Commander's hot box."

Richter
remained impersonal and aloof, but performed his assigned tasks without
apparent resentment. Crag noticed that he stayed as far from Larkwell as
possible, perhaps fearing violence from the burly construction boss. Prochaska,
alone, maintained a cheerful exterior—for which Crag was thankful.

He
was watching them now—the evening of the last day of LarkweD's three-day
estimate—returning from the Bandit. The four figures were strung out over half
a mile. He regarded that as a bad omen. They no longer worked as a crew, but
as separate individuals, each in his separate world, with exception of
Prochaska. He turned away from the port with the familiar feeling that time was
running out, and mentally reviewed what remained to be done.