by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 6
The U. S. Navy's Space Scan Radar Station No. 5 picked up the new rocketbefore it was fairly into space. It clung to it with an electromagnetictrain, bleeding it of data. The information was fed into computers,digested, analyzed and transferred to Alpine Base, and thencetelemetered to the Aztec where it appeared as a pip on the analogdisplay. The grid had automatically adjusted to a 500-mile scale withthe positions of the intruder and Aztec separated by almost the width ofthe instrument face. The Aztec seemed to have a clear edge in the racefor the moon. Prochaska became aware of the newcomer but refrained fromquestions, nor did Crag volunteer any information.
Just now he wasn't worrying about the East World rocket. Not at thispoint. With Drone Able riding to starboard, the Aztec was moving at anever slower rate of speed. It would continue to decelerate, slowed bythe earth's pull as it moved outward, traveling on inertial force sincethe silencing of its engines. By the time it reached the neutral zonewhere the moon and earth gravispheres canceled each other, the Aztecwould have just enough speed left to coast into the moon's field ofinfluence. Then it would accelerate again, picking up speed until slowedby its braking rockets. That was the hour that occupied his thoughts--atime when he would be called upon for split-second decisions coming inwaves.
He tried to anticipate every contingency. The mass ratio necessary toinject the Aztec into its moon trajectory had precluded fuel beyond theabsolute minimum needed. The rocket would approach the moon in anelliptical path, correct its heading to a north-south line relative tothe planet and decelerate in a tight spiral. At a precise point in spacehe would have to start using the braking rockets, slow the ship untilthey occupied an exact point in the infinite space-time continuum, thenlet down into cliff-brimmed Arzachel, a bleak, airless, utterly alienwasteland with but one virtue: Uranium. That and the fact that itrepresented the gateway to the Solar System.
He mentally reviewed the scene a hundred times. He would do this andthis and that. He rehearsed each step, each operation, each fleetingsecond in which all the long years of planning would summate in victoryor disaster. He was the X in the equation in which the Y-scale wasrepresented by the radar altimeter. He would juggle speed, deceleration,altitude, mass and a dozen other variables, keeping them in delicatebalance. Nor could he forget for one second the hostile architecture oftheir destination.
For all practical purposes Arzachel was a huge hole sunk in the moon--avast depression undoubtedly broken by rocks, rills, rough lava outcrops.The task struck him as similar to trying to land a high-speed jet in awell shaft. Well, almost as bad.
He tried to anticipate possible contingencies, formulating his responsesto each. He was, he thought, like an actor preparing for his firstnight. Only this time there would be no repeat performance. The criticswere the gods of chance in a strictly one-night stand.
Gotch was the man who had placed him here. But the responsibility wasall his. Gotch! All he gave a damn about was the moon--a chunk of realestate scorned by its Maker. Crag bit his lip ruefully. Stop feelingsorry for yourself, boy, he thought. You asked for it--practicallybegged for it. Now you've got it.
* * * * *
By the end of the second day the novelty of space had worn off. Crag andProchaska routinely checked the myriad of instruments jammed into thefaces of the consoles: Meteorite impact counters, erosion counters,radiation counters--counters of all kinds. Little numbers on dials andgauges that told man how he was faring in the wastelands of theuniverse. Nagel kept a special watch on the oxygen pressure gauge.Meteorite damage had been one of Gotch's fears. A hole the size of apinhead could mean eventual death through oxygen loss, hence Nagelseldom let a half-hour pass without checking the readings.
Crag and Prochaska spelled each other in brief catnaps. Larkwell, withno duties to perform, was restless. At first he had passed long hours atthe viewports, uttering exclamations of surprise and delight from timeto time. But sight of the ebony sky with its fields of strewn jewelshad, in the end, tended to make him moody. He spent most of the secondday dozing.
Nagel kept busy prowling through the oxygen gear, testing connectionsand making minor adjustments. His seeming concern with the equipmentbothered Crag. The narrow escape with the time bomb had robbed him ofhis confidence in the crew. He told himself the bomb could have beenplanted during the last security shakedown. But a "sleeper" in securityseemed highly unlikely. So did a "sleeper" in the Aztec. Everyone ofthem, he knew, had been scanned under the finest security microscopealmost from birth to the moment each had climbed the tall ladder leadingto the space cabin.
He covertly watched Nagel, wondering if his prowling was a form ofescape, an effort to forget his fears. He was beginning to understandthe stark reality of Nagel's terror. It had been mirrored in his face, anaked, horrible dread, during the recent emergency. No ... he wasn't thesaboteur type. Larkwell, maybe. Perhaps Prochaska. But not Nagel. Asaboteur would have iron nerves, a cold, icy fanaticism that neverconsidered danger. But supposing the man were a consummate actor, hisfear a mask to conceal his purpose?
He debated the pros and cons. In the end he decided it would not bepolitic to forbid Nagel to handle the gear during flight. He was, afterall, their oxygen equipment specialist. He contented himself withkeeping a sharp watch on Nagel's activities--a situation Nagel seemedunmindful of. He seemed to have lost some of his earlier fear. His facewas alert, almost cheerful at times; yet it held the attitude ofwatchful waiting.
Despite his liking for Prochaska, Crag couldn't forget that he hadfailed to find the time bomb in a panel he had twice searched. Still,the console's complex maze of wiring and tubes had made an excellenthiding place. He had to admit he was lucky to have found it himself. Hetried to push his suspicions from his mind without relaxing hisvigilance. It was a hard job.
By the third day the enemy missile had become a prime factor in thethings he found to worry about. The intruder rocket had drawn closer.Alpine warned that the race was neck and neck. It had either escapedearth at a higher speed or had continued to accelerate beyond the escapepoint. Crag regarded the reason as purely academic. The hard fact wasthat it would eventually overtake the still decelerating Aztec. Just nowit was a pip on the analog, a pip which before long would loom as largeas Drone Able, perhaps as close. He tried to assess its meaning, vexedthat Alpine seemed to be doing so little to help in the matter.
Later Larkwell spotted the pip made by the East's rocket on the scope.That let the cat out of the bag as far as Crag was concerned. Soberly heinformed them of its origin. Larkwell bit his lip thoughtfully. Nagelfurrowed his brow, seemingly lost in contemplation. Prochaska'sexpression never changed. Crag assessed each reaction. In fairness, healso assessed his own feeling toward each of the men. He felt a positivedislike of Nagel and a positive liking for Prochaska. Larkwell was aneutral. He seemed to be a congenial, open-faced man who wore hisfeelings in plain sight. But there was a quality about him which, try ashe would, he could not put his finger on.
Nagel, he told himself, must have plenty on the ball. After all, he hadpassed through a tough selection board. Just because the man'spersonality conflicted with his own was no grounds for suspicion. Butthe same reasoning could apply to the others. The fact remained--atleast Gotch seemed certain--that his crew numbered a ringer among them.He was mulling it over when the communicator came to life. The messagewas in moon code.
It came slowly, widely spaced, as if Gotch realized Crag's limitationsin handling the intricate cipher system evolved especially for this oneoperation. Learning it had caused him many a sleepless night. He copiedthe message letter by letter, his understanding blanked by the effortto decipher it. He finished, then quickly read the two scant lines:
"_Blank channel to Alp unless survival need._"
He studied the message for a long moment. Gotch was telling him not tocontact Alpine Base unless it were a life or death matter. Not thateverything connected with the operation wasn't a life or death matter,he thought grimly. He decided th
e message was connected with thepresence of the rocket now riding astern and to one side of the Aztecand her drone. He guessed the Moon Code had been used to preventpossible pickup by the intruder rather than any secrecy involving hisown crew.
He quietly passed the information to Prochaska. The Chief listened,nodding, his eyes going to the analog.
According to his computations, the enemy rocket--Prochaska had dubbed itBandit--would pass abeam of Drone Able slightly after they entered themoon's gravitational field, about 24,000 miles above the planet'ssurface. Then what? He pursed his lips vexedly. Bandit was a factor thathad to be considered, but just how he didn't know. One thing wascertain. The East knew about the load of uranium in Crater Arzachel.That, then, was the destination of the other rocket. Among the many Xunknowns he had to solve, a new X had been added; the rocket from behindthe Iron Curtain. Something told him this would be the biggest X of all.
