First on the Moon

by Jeff Sutton

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  FIRST on the MOON

  by JEFF SUTTON

  ACE BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York 36, N.Y.

  FIRST ON THE MOON

  Copyright (C), 1958, by Ace Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  Printed in U. S. A.

  TO SANDY

  SUICIDE RACE TO LUNA

  The four men had been scrutinized, watched, investigated, and intensively trained for more than a year. They were the best men to be found for that first, all-important flight to the Moon--the pioneer manned rocket that would give either the East or the West control over the Earth.

  Yet when the race started, Adam Crag found that he had a saboteur among his crew ... a traitor! Such a man could give the Reds possession of Luna, and thereby dominate the world it circled.

  Any one of the other three could be the hidden enemy, and if he didn't discover the agent soon--even while they were roaring on rocket jets through outer space--then Adam Crag, his expedition, and his country would be destroyed!

  PROLOGUE

  One of the rockets was silver; three were ashen gray. Each nested in adifferent spot on the great Western Desert. All were long, tapered,sisters except for color. In a way they represented the first, and last,of an era, with exotic propellants, a high mass ratio and three-stagedesign. Yet they were not quite alike. One of the sisters had within herthe artifacts the human kind needed for life--a space cabin high in thenose. The remaining sisters were drones, beasts of burden, but beastswhich carried scant payloads considering their bulk.

  One thing they had in common--destination. They rested on their launchpads, with scaffolds almost cleared, heads high and proud. Soon theywould flash skyward, one by one, seeking a relatively small haven on astrange bleak world. The world was the moon; the bleak place was calledArzachel, a crater--stark, alien, with tall cliffs brooding over an ashyplain.

  Out on the West Coast a successor to the sisters was shaping up--a greatship of a new age, with nuclear drive and a single stage. But thesisters could not wait for their successor. Time was running out.

  CHAPTER I

  The room was like a prison--at least to Adam Crag. It was a square witha narrow bunk, a battered desk, two straight-back chairs and littleelse. Its one small window overlooked the myriad quonsets and buildingsof Burning Sands Base from the second floor of a nearly empty dormitory.

  There was a sentry at the front of the building, another at the rear.Silent alert men who never spoke to Crag--seldom acknowledged hismovements to and from the building--yet never let a stranger approachthe weathered dorm without sharp challenge. Night and day they werethere. From his window he could see the distant launch site and, bynight, the batteries of floodlights illumining the metal monster on thepad. But now he wasn't thinking of the rocket. He was fretting; fumingbecause of a call from Colonel Michael Gotch.

  "Don't stir from the room," Gotch had crisply ordered on the phone. Hehad hung up without explanation. That had been two hours before.

  Crag had finished dressing--he had a date--idly wondering what was inthe Colonel's mind. The fretting had only set in when, after more thanan hour, Gotch had failed to show. Greg's liberty had been restricted toone night a month. One measly night, he thought. Now he was wasting it,tossing away the precious hours. Waiting. Waiting for what?

  "I'm a slave," he told himself viciously; "slave to a damned birdcolonel." His date wouldn't wait--wasn't the waiting kind. But hecouldn't leave.

  He stopped pacing long enough to look at himself in the cracked mirrorabove his desk. The face that stared back was lean, hard, unlined--skinthat told of wind and sun, not brown nor bronze but more of a mahoganyred. Just now the face was frowning. The eyes were wide-spaced, hazel,the nose arrogant and hawkish. A thin white scar ran over one cheekending.

  His mind registered movement behind him. He swiveled around, flexing hisbody, balanced on his toes, then relaxed, slightly mortified.

  Gotch--Colonel Michael Gotch--stood just inside the door eyeing himtolerantly. A flush crept over Crag's face. Damn Gotch and his velvetfeet, he thought. But he kept the thought concealed.

  The expression on Gotch's face was replaced by a wooden mask. He studiedthe lean man by the mirror for a moment, then flipped his cap on the bedand sat down without switching his eyes.

  He said succinctly. "You're it."

  "I've got it?" Crag gave an audible sigh of relief. Gotch nodded withoutspeaking.

  "What about Temple?"

  "Killed last night--flattened by a truck that came over the center-line.On an almost deserted highway just outside the base," Gotch added. Hespoke casually but his eyes were not casual. They were unfathomableblack pools. Opaque and hard. Crag wrinkled his brow inquiringly.

  "Accident?"

  "You know better than that. The truck was hot, a semi with bum plates,and no driver when the cops got there." His voice turned harsh. "No ...it was no accident."

  "I'm sorry," Crag said quietly. He hadn't known Temple personally. Hehad been just a name--a whispered name. One of three names, to be exact:Romer, Temple, Crag. Each had been hand-picked as possible pilots of theAztec, a modified missile being rushed to completion in a last ditcheffort to beat the Eastern World in the race for the moon. They had beenseparately indoctrinated, tested, trained; each had virtually lived inone of the scale-size simulators of the Aztec's space cabin, and hadbeen rigorously schooled for the operation secretly referred to as "StepOne." But they had been kept carefully apart. There had been a time whenno one--unless it were the grim-faced Gotch--knew which of the three wasfirst choice.

  Romer had died first--killed as a bystander in a brawl. So the policesaid. Crag had suspected differently. Now Temple. The choice, after all,had not been the swarthy Colonel's to make. Somehow the knowledgepleased him. Gotch interrupted his thoughts.

  "Things are happening. The chips are down. Time has run out, Adam."While he clipped the words out he weighed Crag, as if seeking some clueto his thoughts. His face said that everything now depended upon thelean man with the hairline scar across his cheek. His eyes momentarilywondered if the lean man could perform what man never before had done.But his lips didn't voice the doubt. After a moment he said:

  "We know the East is behind us in developing an atomic spaceship. Quitea bit behind. We picked up a lot from some of our atomic sub work--thatand our big missiles. But maybe the knowledge made us lax." He addedstridently:

  "Now ... they're ready to launch."

  "Now?"

  "Now!"

  "I didn't think they were that close."

  "Intelligence tells us they've modified a couple of T-3's--the big ICBMmodel. We just got a line on it ... almost too late." Gotch smiledbleakly. "So we've jumped our schedule, at great risk. It's your baby,"he added.

  Crag said simply; "I'm glad of the chance."

  "You should be. You've hung around long enough," Gotch said dryly. Hiseyes probed Crag. "I only hope you've learned enough ... are ready."

  "Plenty ready," snapped Crag.

  "I hope so."

  Gotch got to his feet, a square fiftyish man with cropped iron-grayhair, thick shoulders and weather-roughened skin. Clearly he wasn't adesk colonel.

  "You've got a job, Adam." His voice was unexpectedly soft but hecontinued to weigh Crag for a long moment before he picked up his capand turned toward the door.

  "Wait," he said. He paused, listening for a moment before he opened it,then slipped quietly into the hall, closing the door carefully behindhim.

  He's like a cat, Crag though
t for the thousandth time, watching theclosed door. He was a man who seemed forever listening; a heavy hulkingman who walked on velvet feet; a man with opaque eyes who saw everythingand told nothing. Gotch would return.

  Despite the fact the grizzled Colonel had been his mentor for over ayear he felt he hardly knew the man. He was high up in the missileprogram--missile security, Crag had supposed--yet he seemed to holdpower far greater than that of a security officer. He seemed, in fact,to have full charge of the Aztec project--Step One--even though Dr.Kenneth Walmsbelt was its official director. The difference was, thenation knew Walmsbelt. He talked with congressmen, pleaded for money,carried his program to the newspapers and was a familiar figure on thecountry's TV screens. He was the leading exponent of thespace-can't-wait philosophy. But few people knew Gotch; and fewer yethis connections. He was capable, competent, and to Crag's way ofthinking, a tough monkey, which pretty well summarized his knowledge ofthe man.

  He felt the elation welling inside him, growing until it was almost apainful pleasure. It had been born of months and months of hope, over ayear during which he had scarcely dared hope. Now, because a man haddied....

  He sat looking at the ceiling, thinking, trying to still the innertumult. Only outwardly was he calm. He heard footsteps returning. Gotchopened the door and entered, followed by a second man. Crag startedinvoluntarily, half-rising from his chair.

  He was looking at himself!

  "Crag, meet Adam Crag." The Colonel's voice and face wereexpressionless. Crag extended his hand, feeling a little silly.

  "Glad to know you."

  The newcomer acknowledged the introduction with a grin--the same kind oflopsided grin the real Crag wore. More startling was the selfsamehairline scar traversing his cheek; the same touch of cockiness in theset of his face.

  Gotch said, "I just wanted you to get a good look at yourself. Craghere"--he motioned his hand toward the newcomer--"is your officialdouble. What were you planning for tonight, your last night on earth?"

  "I have a date with Ann. Or had," he added sourly. He twisted his headtoward Gotch as the Colonel's words sunk home. "Last night?"

  Gotch disregarded the question. "For what?"

  "Supper and dancing at the Blue Door."

  "Then?"

  "Take her home, if it's any of your damned business," snapped Crag. "Iwasn't planning on staying, if that's what you mean."

  "I know ... I know, we have you on a chart," Gotch said amiably. "Weknow every move you've made since you wet your first diapers. Like thatcurvy little brunette secretary out in San Diego, or that blonde nightclub warbler you were rushing in Las Vegas." Crag flushed. The Coloneleyed him tolerantly.

  "And plenty more," he added. He glanced at Crag's double. "I'm sure yourtwin will be happy to fill in for you tonight."

  "Like hell he will," gritted Crag. The room was quiet for a moment.

  "As I said, he'll fill in for you."

  Crag grinned crookedly. "Ann won't go for it. She's used to the realarticle."

  "We're not giving her a chance to snafu the works," Gotch said grimly."She's in protective custody. We have a double for her, too."

  "Mind explaining?"

  "Not a bit. Let's face the facts and admit both Romer and Temple weremurdered. That leaves only you. The enemy isn't about to let us get theAztec into space. You're the only pilot left who's been trained for thebig jump--the only man with the specialized know-how. That's why you'reon someone's list. Perhaps, even, someone here at the Base ... or on thehighway ... or in town. I don't know when or how but I do know this:You're a marked monkey."

  Gotch added flatly: "I don't propose to let you get murdered."

  "How about him?" Crag nodded toward his double. The man smiled faintly.

  "That's what he's paid for," Gotch said unfeelingly. His lips curledsardonically. "All the heroes aren't in space."

  Crag flushed. Gotch had a way of making him uncomfortable as no otherman ever had. The gentle needle. But it was true. The Aztec was hisbaby. Gotch's role was to see that he lived long enough to get it intospace. The rest was up to him. Something about the situation struck himas humorous. He looked at his double with a wry grin.

  "Home and to bed early," he cautioned. "Don't forget you've got myreputation to uphold."

  "Go to hell," his double said amiably.

  "Okay, let's get down to business," Gotch growled. "I've got a little tosay."

  * * * * *

  Long after they left Crag stood at the small window, looking out overthe desert. Somewhere out there was the Aztec, a silver arrow crouchedin its cradle, its nose pointed toward the stars. He drew the picture inhis mind. She stood on her tail fins; a six-story-tall needle braced bymetal catwalks and guard rails; a cousin twice-removed to the greatnuclear weapons which guarded Fortress America. He had seen her atnight, under the batteries of floor lights, agleam with a milkyradiance; a virgin looking skyward, which, in fact, she was. Midwayalong her length her diameter tapered abruptly, tapered again beyond thethree-quarters point. Her nose looked slender compared with her body,yet it contained a space cabin with all the panoply needed to sustainlife beyond the atmosphere.

  His thoughts were reverent, if not loving. Save for occasional too-briefintervals with Ann, the ship had dominated his life for over a year. Heknew her more intimately, he thought, than a long-married man knows hiswife.

  He had never ceased to marvel at the Aztec's complexity. Everythingabout the rocket spoke of the future. She was clearly designed toperform in a time not yet come, at a place not yet known. She would fly,watching the stars, continuously measuring the angle between them,computing her way through the abyss of space. Like a woman she wouldunderstand the deep currents within her, the introspective sensing ofevery force which had an effect upon her life. She would measuregravitation, acceleration and angular velocity with infinite precision.She would count these as units of time, perform complex mathematicalequations, translate them into course data, and find her way unerringlyacross the purple-black night which separated her from her assignationwith destiny. She would move with the certainty of a woman fleeing toher lover. Yes, he thought, he would put his life in the lady's hands.He would ride with her on swift wings. But he would be her master.

  * * * * *

  His mood changed. He turned from the window thinking it was a hell of away to spend his last night. Last night on earth, he corrected wryly. Hecouldn't leave the room, couldn't budge, didn't know where Ann was. Notelephone. He went to bed wondering how he'd ever let himself getsnookered into the deal. Here he was, young, with a zest for life and astacked-up gal on the string. And what was he doing about it? Going tothe moon, that's what. Going to some damned hell-hole called Arzachel,all because a smooth bird colonel had pitched him a few soft words.Sucker!

  His lips twisted in a crooked grin. Gotch had seduced him by describinghis mission as an "out-of-this-world opportunity." Those had beenGotch's words. Well, that was Arzachel. And pretty quick it would beAdam Crag. Out-of-this-world Crag. Just now the thought wasn't soappealing.

  * * * * *

  Sleep didn't come easy. At Gotch's orders he had turned in early, at theunheard hour of seven. Getting to sleep was another matter. It'sstrange, he thought, he didn't have any of the feelings Doc Weldon, thepsychiatrist, had warned him of. He wasn't nervous, wasn't afraid. Yetbefore another sun had set he'd be driving the Aztec up from earth, intothe loneliness of space, to a bleak crater named Arzachel. He would facethe dangers of intense cosmic radiation, chance meteor swarms, and humanerrors in calculation which could spell disaster. It would be the firststep in the world race for control of the Solar System--a crucial racewith the small nations of the world watching for the winner. Watchingand waiting to see which way to lean.

  He was already cut off from mankind, imprisoned in a small room withthe momentous zero hour drawing steadily nearer. Strange, he thought,there had been a time when his career had see
med ended, washed up,finished, the magic of the stratosphere behind him for good. Sure, he'dresigned from the Air Force at his own free will, even if his C. O. hadmade the pointed suggestion. Because he hadn't blindly followed orders.Because he'd believed in making his own decisions when the chips weredown. "Lack of _esprit de corps_," his C. O. had termed it.

  He'd been surprised that night--it was over a year ago now--that ColonelGotch had contacted him. (Just when he was wondering where he might geta job. He hadn't liked the prosaic prospects of pushing passengersaround the country in some jet job.) Sure, he'd jumped at the offer. Butthe question had never left his mind. _Why had Gotch selected him?_ TheAztec, a silver needle plunging through space followed by her drones,all in his tender care. He was planning the step-by-step procedure oftake-off when sleep came.