by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 4
The communicator came to life with data on Pickering. The satelloid wasmoving higher, faster than the Aztec, riding the rim of the exospherewhere the atmosphere is indistinguishable from absolute space. Crag feltthankful he hadn't been tabbed for the job. The satelloid was a fragilething compared to the Aztec--a moth compared to a hawk. It was arelative handful of light metals and delicate electronic components, yetit moved at frightful speeds over the course the armchair astronauts haddubbed "Sputnik Avenue." It was a piloted vehicle, a mite with smallstubby wings to enable it to glide through the air ocean to safesanctuary after orbiting the earth. Pickering would be crouched in itsscant belly, a space hardly larger than his body, cramped in a pressuresuit that made movement all but impossible. His smallest misjudgmentwould spell instant death. Crag marveled at Pickering's audacity.Clearly he had the roughest mission. While he thought about it, he keptone part of his mind centered on the communicator absorbing the data onthe satelloid's position and speed.
The Northern tip of Africa came up fast. The Dark Continent of historyseen from the borders of space was a yellow-green splotch hemmed byblue. The satelloid was still beyond the Aztec's radar range but a datalink analog painted in the relationship between the two space vehicles.The instrument's automatic grid measured the distance between them inhundreds of miles. Pickering, aloft before them, had fled into the eastand already was beginning to overtake them from the west. The ships wereseen on the analog as two pips, two mites aloft in the air ocean. Cragmarveled at the satelloid's tremendous speed. It was a ray of metalflashing along the fringes of space, a rapier coming out of the west.
The Middle East passed under them, receding, a mass of yellow-green andoccasional smoke-blue splotches. The earth was a giant curvature, notyet an orb, passing into the shadow of night. It was a night offantastic shortness, broken by daylight over the Pacific. The ocean wasan incredible blue, blue-black he decided. The harsh sound of thecommunicator came to life. Someone wanted a confab with Crag. A privateconfab. Prochaska wrinkled his brow questioningly. Crag switched to hisear insert phone and acknowledged.
"A moment," a voice said. He waited.
"Commander, we've bad news for you." It was Gotch's voice, a rasp comingover a great distance.
"The S-two reports a rocket being tracked by radar. ComSoPac's picked itup. It's on intercept course."
Crag's thoughts raced. The S-two was the satelloid's code name. "Anyidea what kind?"
"Probably a sub-launched missile--riding a beam right to you. Or thedrone," he added. He was silent for a second. "Well, we sort of expectedthis might happen, Commander. It's a tough complication."
A helluva lot of good that does, Crag thought. What next? Another set ofpilots, more indoctrination, new rockets, another zero hour. Gotch wouldwin the moon if he had to use the whole Air Force. He said, "Well, it'sbeen a nice trip, so far."
"Get Prochaska on the scope."
"He's on and ... hold it." The Chief was making motions toward thescope. "No, it's the satelloid. He's--"
Gotch broke in with more data. Then it was there.
"He's got it," Crag announced. Gotch was silent. He watched the analog.All three pips were visible. The satelloid was still above them, rushingin, fast. The interceptor was lower to the northwest, cutting into theirpath. He thought it was the Drone Able story all over again. Only thistime it wasn't a supply rocket. It was a warhead, a situation theycouldn't control.
_Couldn't control? Or could they?_ He debated the question, then quicklybriefed Prochaska and cut him in on the com circuit.
"We can use Drone Able as an intercept," he told Gotch.
"No!" The word came explosively.
Crag snapped, "Drone Able won't be a damn bit of good without theAztec."
"No, this is ground control, Commander." Gotch abruptly cut off. Cragcursed.
"Calling Step One.... Calling Step One. S-two calling Step One. Are youreceiving? Over." The voice came faint over the communicator, rising andfalling.
"Step One," Crag said, adjusting his lip mike. He acknowledged the codecall while his mind registered the fact it wasn't Alpine Base. There wasa burst of static. He waited a moment, puzzled.
"S-two calling...."
Pickering! He had been slow in recognizing the satelloid's code call.The voice faded--was lost. His thought raced. Pickering was up there inthe satelloid moving higher, faster than the Aztec, hurtling along therim of space in a great circle around the earth. The stubby-wingedrocket ship was a minute particle in infinity, yet it represented a partin the great adventure. It was the hand of Michael Gotch reaching towardthem. For the instant, the knowledge gave him a ray of hope--hope asquickly dashed. The S-two was just a high-speed observation and relayplatform; a manned vehicle traveling the communication orbit establishedby the Army's earlier Explorer missiles. He turned back to Prochaska andsketched in his plan of using Drone Able as an intercept.
"Could be." The Chief bit his lip reflectively. "We could control herthrough her steering rockets, but we'd have to be plenty sharp. We'donly get one crack."
"Chances are the intercept is working on a proximity fuse," Cragreasoned. "All we'd have to do is work the drone into its flight path.We could use our own steering rockets to give us a bigger margin ofsafety."
"What would the loss of Able mean?"
Crag shrugged. "I'm more concerned with what the loss of the Aztec wouldmean."
"Might work." The Chief looked sharply at him. "What does Alpine say?"
"They say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was muchnearer. So was the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for aneye-witness report, he thought sourly. Probably got an automatic cameraso Gotch can watch the show. He looked quizzically at Prochaska. TheChief wore a frozen mask. He got back on the communicator and repeatedhis request. When he finished, there was a dead silence in the void.
The Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully atProchaska. Last time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited toleave the Air Force. But Gotch had taken him despite that. He glancedover his shoulder trying to formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back inhis seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog, he thought. He doesn't know what he'sin for. He twisted his head further. Nagel watched him with a narrowlook. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind and turned back to theanalog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across the grid.The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid wasdropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too. Much nearer. Prochaskawatched the scene on his radarscope.
"She's coming fast," he murmured. His face had paled.
"Too fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine.Gotch came on immediately.
Crag said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept.It's the only chance."
"Commander, I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy,biting.
"Ground has no control over this situation," Crag snapped angrily.
"I said ground control, Commander. That's final."
"I'm using Drone Able."
"Commander Crag, you'll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Gotchraged. "Don't move that Drone."
For a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just now he'd like tobe guaranteed the chance to clear the heads at Alpine Base. It soundedgood--real good. There was another burst of static. Pickering's voicecame in--louder, clearer, a snap through the ether.
"Don't sacrifice the drone, Commander!"
"Do you know a better way?"
Pickering's voice dropped to a laconic drawl.
"Reckon so."
Crag glanced at the analog and gave a visible start. The satelloid waslower, moving in faster along a course which would take it obliquelythrough the space path being traversed by the Aztec. If there was such athing as a wake in space, that's where the satelloid would chop through,cutting down toward the intercept. He's using his power, he thought, thescant amount of fuel he would need for landing. But if he used it up....
He slashed the thought off and swung to the communicator.
"Step One to S-two ... Step One to S-two ..."
"S-two." Pickering came in immediately.
Crag barked, "You can't--"
"That's my job," Pickering cut in. "You gotta get that bucket to themoon." Crag looked thoughtfully at the communicator.
"Okay," he said finally. "Thanks, fellow."
"Don't mention it. The Air Force is always ready to serve," Pickeringsaid. "Adios." He cut off.
Crag stared at the analog, biting his lip, feeling the emotion surgeinside him. It grew to a tumult.
"Skipper!" Prochaska's voice was startled. "For God's sake ... look!"
Crag swung his eyes to the scope. The blip representing Pickering hadcut their flight path, slicing obliquely through their wake. At itstremendous speed only the almost total absence of air molecules kept thesatelloid from turning into a blazing torch. Down ... down ... plungingto meet the death roaring up from the Pacific. They followed itsilently. A brief flare showed on the scope. They looked at the screenfor a long moment.
"He was a brave man," Prochaska said simply.
"A pile of guts." Crag got on the communicator. Gotch listened. When hehad finished, Gotch said:
"After this, Commander, follow ground orders. You damned near fouled upthe works. I don't want to see that happen again."
"Yes, Sir, but I couldn't have expected that move."
"What do you think Pickering was up there for?" Gotch asked softly. "Heknew what he was doing. That was his job. Just like the couple that gotbumped at the Blue Door. It's tough, Commander, but some people have todie. A lot have, already, and there'll be a lot more."
He added brusquely, "You'll get your chance." The communicator wassilent for a moment. "Well, carry on."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Crag said. He glanced over his shoulder.
Larkwell was leaning over in his seat, twisting his body to see out theside port. His face was filled with the wonder of space. Nagel didn'tstir. His eyes were big saucers in his white, thin face. Crag halfexpected to see his lips quiver, and wondered briefly at the courage itmust have taken for him to volunteer. He didn't seem at all like thehero type. Still, look at Napoleon. You could never tell what a man haduntil the chips were down. Well, the chips _were_ down. Nagel betterhave it. He turned reflectively back to the forward port thinking thatthe next two days would be humdrum. Nothing would ever seem tough again.Not after what they had just been through.
Prochaska fell into the routine of calling out altitude and speed. Craglistened with one part of his mind occupied with Pickering's sacrifice.Would he have had the courage to drive the satelloid into the warhead?Did it take more guts to do that than to double for a man slated to bemurdered? He mulled the questions. Plainly, Step One was jammed withheroes.
"Altitude, 1,000 miles, speed, 22,300." Prochaska whispered the words,awe in his voice. They looked at each other wordlessly.
"We've made it," Crag exulted. "We're on that old moon trajectory." TheChiefs face reflected his wonder. Crag studied his instruments. Speedslightly over 22,300 miles per hour. The radar altimeter showed theAztec slightly more than one thousand miles above the earth's surface.He hesitated, then cut off the third stage engine. The fuel gaugeindicated a bare few gallons left. This small amount, he knew,represented error in the precise computations of escape. Well, the extraweight was negligible. At the same time, they couldn't afford addedacceleration. He became aware that the last vestige of weight hadvanished. He moved his hand. No effort. No effort at all. Space, hethought, the first successful manned space ship.
Elation swept him. He, Adam Crag, was in space. Not just the top of theatmosphere but absolute space--the big vacuum that surrounded the world.This had been the aim ... the dream ... the goal. And so quick!
He flicked his mind back. It seemed almost no time at all since theGermans had electrified the world with the V-2, a primitive rocket thatscarcely reached seventy miles above the earth, creeping at a mere 3,000miles per hour.
The Americans had strapped a second stage to the German prototype,creating the two-stage V-2-Wac Corporal and sending it 250 miles intothe tall blue at speeds better than 5,000 miles per hour. It had been abattle even then, he thought, remembering the dark day the Russians beatthe West with Sputnik I ... seemingly demolished it with SputnikII--until the U. S. Army came through with Explorer I. That had been thereal beginning. IRBM's and ICBM's had been born. Missiles andcounter-missiles. Dogs, monkeys and mice had ridden the fringes ofspace. But never man.
A deep sense of satisfaction flooded him. The Aztec had been the first.The Aztec under Commander Adam Crag. The full sense of theaccomplishment was just beginning to strike him. We've beaten the enemy,he thought. We've won. It had been a grim battle waged on atechnological front; a battle between nations in which, ironically, eachvictory by either side took mankind a step nearer emancipation from theworld. Man could look forward now, to a bright shiny path leading to thestars. This was the final step. The Big Step. The step that would tietogether two worlds. In a few short days the Aztec would reach herlonely destination, Arzachel, a bleak spot in the universe. Adam Crag,the Man in the Moon. He hoped. He turned toward the others, trying towipe the smug look from his face.
The oddity of weightlessness was totally unlike anything he had expecteddespite the fact its symptoms had been carefully explained during theindoctrination program. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, yet hewasn't. He felt no sense of pressure against the seat, or againstanything else, for that matter. It was, he thought, like sitting on air,as light as a mote of dust drifting in a breeze. Sure, he'd experiencedweightlessness before, when pushing a research stratojet through ahigh-speed trajectory to counter the pull of gravity, for example. Butthose occasions had lasted only brief moments. He moved his handexperimentally upward--a move that ended like the strike of a snake.Yeah, it was going to take some doing to learn control of his movements.He looked at Prochaska. The Chief was feeding data to Alpine Base. Hefinished and grinned broadly at Crag. His eyes were elated.
"Sort of startling, isn't it?"
"Amen," Crag agreed. "I'm almost afraid to loosen my harnessing.
"Alpine says we're right on the button--schedule, course and speed.There's a gal operator on now."
"That's good. That means we're back to routine." Crag loosened hisharnesses and twisted around in his seat. Larkwell was moving his handsexperimentally. He saw Crag and grinned foolishly. Nagel looked ill. Hisface was pinched, bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed. He caught Crag's lookand nodded, without expression.
"Pretty rough," Crag said sympathetically. His voice, in the new-bornsilence, possessed a curious muffled effect. "We're past the worst."
Nagel's lips twisted derisively. "Yeah?"
The querulous tone grated Crag and he turned back to the controls._Every minor irritant will assume major proportions._ That's what DocWeldon had warned. Well, damnit, he wouldn't let Nagel get him down.Besides, what was his gripe? They were all in the same boat. He turnedto the instrument console, checking the myriad of dials, gauges andscopes. Everything seemed normal, if there was such a thing as normalcyin space. He said reflectively, speaking to no one in particular:
"Maybe I should have been more truthful with the Colonel before takingon this damned job of moon pilot. There's something I didn't tell him."
"What?" Prochaska's face was startled.
"I've never been to the moon before."
