by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 7
If Colonel Michael Gotch were worried, he didn't show it. He puffedcomplacently on his black briar pipe watching and listening to theleathery-faced man across from him. His visitor was angular, aboutsixty, with gray-black hair and hard-squinted eyes. A livid scar bitdeep into his forehead; his mouth was a cold thin slash in his face. Hewore the uniform of a Major General in the United States Air Force. Theuniform did not denote the fact that its wearer was M.I.--MilitaryIntelligence. His name was Leonard Telford.
"So that's the way it looks," General Telford was saying. "The enemy isout to get Arzachel at all costs. Failing that, they'll act to keep usfrom it."
"They wouldn't risk war," Gotch stated calmly.
"No, but neither would we. That's the damnable part of it," the Generalagreed. "The next war spells total annihilation. But for that veryreason they can engage in sabotage and hostile acts with security ofknowledge that we won't go to war. Look at them now--the missile attackon the Aztec, the time bomb plant, the way they operate their networksright in our midst. Pure audacity. Hell, they've even got an agent _enroute_ to the moon. On our rocket at that."
The Colonel nodded uncomfortably. The presence of a saboteur on theAztec represented a bungle in his department. The General was tellinghim so in a not too gentle way.
"I seem to recall I was in Astrakhan myself a few years back," hereminded.
"Oh, sure, we build pretty fair networks ourselves," the General saidblandly. He looked at Gotch and a rare smile crossed his face. "How didyou like the dancing girls in Gorik's, over by the shore?"
Gotch looked startled, then grinned. "Didn't know you'd ever been thatfar in, General."
"Uh-huh, same time you were."
"Well, I'll be damned," Gotch breathed softly. There was a note ofrespect in his voice. The General was silent for a moment.
"But the Caspian's hot now."
"Meaning?"
"Warheads--with the name Arzachel writ large across the nose cones." Heeyed Gotch obliquely. "If we secure Arzachel first, they'll blow it offthe face of the moon." They looked at each other silently. Outside a jetengine roared to life.
* * * * *
The moon filled the sky. It was gigantic, breath-taking, a monstroussphere of cratered rock moving in the eternal silence of space withghostly-radiance, heedless that a minute mote bearing alien life hadentered its gravitational field. It moved in majesty along its orbitsome 2,300 miles every hour, alternately approaching to within 222,000miles of its Earth Mother, retreating to over 252,000 miles measuringits strides by some strange cosmic clock.
The Apennines, a rugged mountain range jutting 20,000 feet above theplanet's surface, was clearly visible. It rose near the CraterEratosthenes, running northwest some 200 miles to form the southwestboundary of Mare Imbrium. The towering Leibnitz and Dorfel Mountainswere visible near the edge of the disc. South along the terminator, theborder between night and day, lay Ptolemaeus, Alphons, and Arzachel.
Crag and Prochaska studied its surface, picking out the flat areas whichearly astronomers had mistaken for seas and which still bore the namesof seas. The giant enclosure Clavius, the lagoon-like Plato andash-strewn Copernicus held their attention. Crag studied the north-southline along which Arzachel lay, wondering again if they could seek outsuch a relatively small area in the jumbled, broken, twisted landbeneath them.
At some 210,000 miles from earth the Aztec had decelerated to a littleover 300 miles per hour. Shortly after entering the moon's gravisphereit began to accelerate again. Crag studied the enemy rocket ridingastern. It would be almost abreast them in short time, off to one sideof the silver drone. It, too, was accelerating.
"Going to be nip and tuck," he told Prochaska. The Chief nodded.
"Don't like the looks of that stinker," he grunted.
Crag watched the analog a moment longer before turning to the quartzviewport. His eyes filled with wonder. For untold ages lovers had sungof the moon, philosophers had pondered its mysteries, astronomers hadscanned and mapped every visible mile of its surface until selenographyhad achieved an exactness comparable to earth cartography. Scientistshad proved beyond doubt that the moon wasn't made of green cheese. Butno human eye had ever beheld its surface as Crag was doing now--Crag,Prochaska, Larkwell and Nagel. The latter two were peering through theside ports. Prochaska and Crag shared the forward panel. It was atribute to the event that no word was spoken. Aside from the Chief'soccasional checks on Drone Able and Bandit--the name stuck--the fourpairs of eyes seldom left the satellite's surface.
The landing plan called for circling the moon during which they were tomaneuver Drone Able into independent orbit. It was Crag's job to bringthe Aztec down at a precise point in Crater Arzachel and the Chief's jobto handle the drone landings, a task as ticklish as landing the Aztecitself.
The spot chosen for landing was in an area where the Crater's floor wasbroken by a series of rills--wide, shallow cracks the earth scientistshoped would give protection against the fall of meteorites. Due to lackof atmosphere the particles in space, ranging from dust grains to hugechunks of rock, were more lethal than bullets. They were another unknownin the gamble for the moon. A direct hit by even a grain-sized particlecould puncture a space suit and bring instant death. A large one couldutterly destroy the rocket itself. Larkwell's job was to construct anairlock in one of the rills from durable lightweight prefabricatedplastiblocks carried in the drones. Such an airlock would protect themfrom all but vertically falling meteorites.
Crag felt almost humble in the face of the task they were undertaking.He knew his mind alone could grasp but a minute part of the knowledgethat went into making the expedition possible. Their saving lay in thefact they were but agents, protoplasmic extensions of a complex ofcomputers, scientists, plans which had taken years to formulate, and aman named Michael Gotch who had said:
"_You will land on Arzachel._"
He initiated the zero phase by ordering the crew into their pressuresuits. Prochaska took over while he donned his own bulky garment,grimacing as he pulled the heavy helmet over his shoulders. Later, inthe last moments of descent, he would snap down the face plate andpressurize the suit. Until then he wanted all the freedom the bulkygarments would allow.
"Might as well get used to it." Prochaska grinned. He flexed his armsexperimentally.
Larkwell grunted. "Wait till they're pressurized. You'll think rigormortis has set in."
Crag grinned. "That's a condition I'm opposed to."
"Amen." Larkwell gave a weak experimental jump and promptly smacked hishead against the low overhead. He was smiling foolishly when Nagelsnapped at him:
"One more of those and you'll be walking around the moon without apressure suit." He peevishly insisted on examining the top of the helmetfor damage.
Crag fervently hoped they wouldn't need the suits for landing. Anydamage that would allow the Aztec's oxygen to escape would in itself bea death sentence, even though death might be dragged over the longperiod of time it would take to die for lack of food. An intact spacecabin represented the only haven in which they could escape from thecumbersome garments long enough to tend their biological needs.
Imperceptibly the sensation of weight returned, but it was not the bodyweight of earth. Even on the moon's surface they would weigh butone-sixth their normal weight.
"Skipper, look." Prochaska's startled exclamation drew Crag's eyes tothe radarscope. Bandit had made minute corrections in its course.
"They're using steering rockets," Crag mused, trying to assess itsmeaning.
"Doesn't make sense," said Prochaska. "They can't have that kind ofpower to spare. They'll need every bit they have for landing."
"What's up?" Larkwell peered over their shoulders, eyeing theradarscope. Crag bit off an angry retort. Larkwell sensed the rebuff andreturned away. They kept their eyes glued to the scope. Banditmaneuvered to a position slightly behind and to one side of the silverdrone. Crag looked out the side port. Bandit was
clearly visible, amonstrous cylinder boring through the void with cold precision. Therewas something ominous about it. He felt the hair prickle at the nape ofhis neck. Larkwell moved alongside him.
Bandit made another minute correction. White vapor shot from its tailand it began to move ahead.
"Using rocket power," Crag grunted. "Damn if I can figure that one out."
"Looks crazy to me. I should think--" Prochaska's voice froze. A minutepip broke off from Bandit, boring through space toward the silver drone.
"Warhead!" Crag roared the word with cold anger.
Prochaska cursed softly.
One second Drone Able was there, riding serenely through space. The nextit disintegrated, blasted apart by internal explosions. Seconds lateronly fragments of the drone were visible.
Prochaska stared at Crag, his face bleak. Crag's brain reeled. Hementally examined what had happened, culling his thoughts until one coldfact remained.
"Mistaken identity," he said softly. "They thought it was the Aztec."
"Now what?"
"Now we hope they haven't any more warheads." Crag mulled thepossibility. "Considering weight factors, I'd guess they haven't.Besides, there's no profit in wasting a warhead on a drone."
"We hope." Prochaska studied Bandit through the port, and licked hislips nervously. "Think we ought to contact Alpine?"
Crag weighed the question. Despite the tight beam, any communicationcould be a dead giveaway. On the other hand, Bandit either had thecapacity to destroy them or it didn't. If it did, well, there wasn'tmuch they could do about it. He reached a decision and nodded toProchaska, then began coding his thoughts.
He had trouble getting through on the communicator. Finally he got aweak return signal, then sent a brief report. Alpine acknowledged andcut off the air.
"What now?" Prochaska asked, when Crag had finished.
He shrugged and turned to the side port without answering. Bandit loomedlarge, a long thick rocket with an oddly blunted nose. A monster thatwas as deadly as it looked.
"Big," he surmised. "Much bigger than this chunk of hardware."
"Yeah, a regular battleship," Prochaska assented. He grinned crookedly."In more ways than one."
Crag sensed movement at his shoulder and turned his head. Nagel wasstudying the radarscope over his shoulder. Surprise lit his narrow face.
"The drone?"
"Destroyed," Crag said bruskly. "Bandit had a warhead."
Nagel looked startled, then retreated to his seat without a word. Cragreturned his attention to the enemy rocket.
"What do you think?" he asked Prochaska.
His answer was solemn. "It spells trouble."
