First on the Moon

by Jeff Sutton

  CHAPTER 8

  At a precise point in space spelled out by the Alpine computers Cragapplied the first braking rockets. He realized that the act had been animmediate tip-off to the occupants of the other rocket. No matter, hethought. Sooner or later they had to discover it was the drone they haddestroyed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their headlong flight wasslowed. He nursed the rockets with care. There was no fuel to spare, noenergy to waste, no room for error. Everything had been worked out longbeforehand; he was merely the agent of execution.

  The sensation of weight gradually increased. He ordered Larkwell andNagel into their seats in strapdown position. He and Prochaska shortlyfollowed, but he left his shoulder harnessing loose to give his arms thevital freedom he needed for the intricate maneuvers ahead.

  The moon rushed toward them at an appalling rate. Its surface was aharsh grille work of black and white, a nightmarish scape of pocks andtwisted mountains of rock rimming the flat lunar plains. It was, hethought, the geometry of a maniac. There was no softness, no blend oflight and shadow, only terrible cleavages between black and white. Yetthere was a beauty that gripped his imagination; the raw, stark beautyof a nature undefiled by life. No eye had ever seen the canopy of theheavens from the bleak surface below; no flower had ever wafted in alunar breeze.

  Prochaska nudged his arm and indicated the scope. Bandit was almostabreast them. Crag nodded understandingly.

  "No more warheads."

  "Guess we're just loaded with luck," Prochaska agreed wryly.

  They watched ... waited ... mindless of time. Crag felt the tensionbuilding inside him. Occasionally he glanced at the chronometer, itchingfor action. The wait seemed interminable. Minutes or hours? He losttrack of time.

  All at once his hands and mind were busy with the braking rockets,dials, meters. First the moon had been a pallid giant in the sky; nextit filled the horizon. The effect was startling. The limb of the moon,seen as a shallow curved horizon, no longer was smooth. It appeared as arugged saw-toothed arc, somehow reminding him of the Devil's Golf Coursein California's Death Valley. It was weird and wonderful, and slightlyterrifying.

  Prochaska manned the automatic camera to record the orbital and landingphases. He spotted the Crater of Ptolemaeus first, near the center-lineof the disc. Crag made a minute correction with the steering rockets.The enemy rocket followed suit. Prochaska gave a short harsh laughwithout humor.

  "Looks like we're piloting them in. Jeepers, you'd think they could dotheir own navigation."

  "Shows the confidence they have in us," Crag retorted.

  They flashed high above Ptolemaeus, a crater ninety miles in diameterrimmed by walls three thousand feet high. The crater fled by below them.South lay Alphons; and farther south, Arzachel, with walls ten thousandfeet high rimming its vast depressed interior.

  Prochaska observed quietly: "Nice rugged spot. It's going to take somedoing."

  "Amen."

  "I'm beginning to get that what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling."

  "I've had it right along," Crag confided.

  They caught only a fleeting look at Arzachel before it rushed into thebackground. Crag touched the braking rockets from time to time, gently,precisely, keeping his eyes moving between the radar altimeter and speedindicator while the Chief fed him the course data.

  The back side of the moon was spinning into view--the side of the moonnever before seen by human eyes. Prochaska whistled softly. A hugemountain range interlaced with valleys and chasms pushed some thirtythousand feet into the lunar skies. Long streaks of ochre and brownmarked its sides, the first color they had seen on the moon. Flathighland plains crested between the peaks were dotted with strangemonolithic structures almost geometrical in their distribution.

  Prochaska was shooting the scene with the automatic camera. Crag twistedaround several times to nod reassuringly to Nagel and Larkwell but eachtime they were occupied with the side ports, oblivious of his gesture.To his surprise Nagel's face was rapt, almost dreamy, completelyabsorbed by the stark lands below. Larkwell, too, was quiet with wonder.

  The jagged mountains fell away to a great sea, larger even than MareImbrium, and like Mare Imbrium, devoid of life. A huge crater rose fromits center, towering over twenty thousand feet. Beyond lay moremountains. The land between was a wild tangle of rock, a place ofunutterable desolation. Crag was fascinated and depressed at the sametime. The Aztec was closing around the moon in a tight spiral.

  The alien landscape drew visibly nearer. He switched his attentionbetween the braking rockets and instruments, trying to manage a quickglance at the scope. Prochaska caught his look.

  "Bandit's up on us," he confirmed.

  Crag uttered a vile epithet and Prochaska grinned. He liked to hear himgrowl, taking it as a good sign.

  Crag glanced worriedly at the radar altimeter and hit the brakingrockets harder. The quick deceleration gave the impression of addedweight, pushing them hard against their chest harnesses.

  He found it difficult to make the precise hand movements required. TheAztec was dropping with frightening rapidity. They crossed moremountains, seas, craters, great chasms. Time had become meaningless--hadceased to exist. The sheer bleakness of the face of the moon gripped hisimagination. He saw it as the supreme challenge, the magnitude of whichtook his breath. He was Cortez scanning the land of the Aztecs. More,for this stark lonely terrain had never felt the stir of life. Nobenevolent Maker had created this chaos. It was an inferno withoutfire--a hell of a kind never known on earth. It was the handiwork of anature on a rampage--a maddened nature whose molding clay had beenmolten lava.

  He stirred the controls, moved them further, holding hard. The brakingrockets shook the ship, coming through the bulkheads as a faint roar.The ground came up fast. Still the landscape fled by--fled past forseeming days.

  Prochaska announced wonderingly. "We've cleared the back side. You're onthe landing run, Skipper."

  Crag nodded grimly, thinking it was going to be rough. Each second, eachsplit second had to be considered. There was no margin for error. Nosecond chance. He checked and re-checked his instruments, juggling speedagainst altitude.

  Ninety-mile wide Ptolemaeus was coming around again--fast. He caught aglimpse through the floor port. It was a huge saucer, level at thebottom, rimmed by low cliffs which looked as though they had been carvedfrom obsidian. The floor was split by irregular chasms, punctuated bysharp high pinnacles. It receded and Alphons rushed to meet them. TheAztec was dropping fast. Too fast? Crag looked worriedly at the radaraltimeter and hit the braking rockets harder. Alphons passed moreslowly. They fled south, a slim needle in the lunar skies.

  "Arzachel...." He breathed the name almost reverently.

  Prochaska glanced out the side port before hurriedly consulting theinstruments. Thirty thousand feet! He glanced worriedly at Crag. Theground passed below them at a fantastic speed. They seemed to bedropping faster. The stark face of the planet hurtled to meet them.

  "Fifteen thousand feet," Prochaska half-whispered. Crag nodded. "Twelvethousand ... ten ... eight...." The Chief continued to chant thealtitude readings in a strained voice. Up until then the face of themoon had seemed to rush toward the Aztec. All at once it changed. Now itwas the Aztec that rushed across the hostile land--rushing and dropping."Three thousand ... two thousand...." They flashed high above a greatcliff which fell away for some ten thousand feet. At its base began theplain of Arzachel.

  Out of the corner of his eye Crag saw that Bandit was leadingthem. But higher ... much higher. Now it was needling into thepurple-black--straight up. He gave a quick, automatic instrument check.The braking rockets were blasting hard. He switched one hand to thesteering rockets.

  Zero minute was coming up. Bandit was ahead, but higher. It could, hethought, be a photo finish. Suddenly he remembered his face plate andsnapped it shut, opening the oxygen valve. The suit grew rigid on hisbody and hampered his arms. He cursed softly and looked sideways atProchaska. He was having the same difficulty. Crag managed a
quickover-the-shoulder glance at Larkwell and Nagel. Everything seemed okay.

  He took a deep breath and applied full deceleration with the brakingjets and simultaneously began manipulating the steering rockets. Theship vibrated from stem to stern. The forward port moved upward; theface of the moon swished past and disappeared. Bandit was lost to sight.The ship trembled, shuddered and gave a violent wrench. Crag was thrownforward.

  The Aztec began letting down, tail first. It was a sickening moment. Thebraking rockets astern, heavy with smoke, thundered through the hull.The smoke blanketed out the ports. The cabin vibrated. He straightenedthe nose with the steering rockets, letting the ship fall in a verticalattitude, tail first. He snapped a glance at the radar altimeter andpunched a button.

  A servo mechanism somewhere in the ship started a small motor. A tubularspidery metal framework was projected out from the tail, extending sometwenty feet before it locked into position. It was a failing deviceintended to absorb the energy generated by the landing impact.

  Prochaska looked worriedly out the side port. Crag followed his eyes.Small details on the plain of Arzachel loomed large--pits, cracks, lowridges of rock. Suddenly the plain was an appalling reality. Rockyfingers reached to grip them. He twisted his head until he caught sightof Bandit. It was moving down, tail first, but it was still high in thesky. Too high, he thought. He took a fast look at the radar altimeterand punched the full battery of braking rockets again. The force on hisbody seemed unbearable. Blood was forced into his head, blurring hisvision. His ears buzzed and his spine seemed to be supporting somegigantic weight. The pressure eased and the ground began moving up moreslowly. The rockets were blasting steadily.

  For a split-second the ship seemed to hang in mid-air followed by aviolent shock. The cabin teetered, then smashed onto the plain, swayingas the framework projecting from the tail crumpled. The shock drove themhard into their seats. They sat for a moment before full realizationdawned. They were down--alive!

  Crag and Prochaska simultaneously began shucking their safety belts.Crag was first. He sprang to the side port just in time to see the lastseconds of Bandit's landing. It came down fast, a perpendicular needlestabbing toward the lunar surface. Flame spewed from its brakingrockets; white smoke enveloped its nose.

  Fast ... too fast, he thought. Suddenly the flame licked out. Fuelerror. The thought flashed through his mind. The fuel Bandit had wastedin space maneuvering to destroy the drone had left it short. The rocketseemed to hang in the sky for a scant second before it plummetedstraight down, smashing into the stark lunar landscape. The Chief hadreached his side just in time to witness the crash.

  "That's all for them," he said. "Can't say I'm sorry."

  "Serves 'em damn well right," growled Crag. He became conscious of Nageland Larkwell crowding to get a look and obligingly moved to one sidewithout taking his eyes from the scene. He tried to judge Bandit'sdistance.

  "Little over two miles," he estimated aloud.

  "You can't tell in this vacuum," Prochaska advised. "Your eyes play youtricks. Wait'll I try the scope." A moment later he turned admiringlyfrom the instrument.

  "Closer to three miles. Pretty good for a green hand."

  Crag laughed, a quiet laugh of self-satisfaction, and said, "I could usea little elbow room. Any volunteers?"

  "Liberty call," Prochaska sang out. "All ashore who's going ashore. Thegals are waiting."

  "I'm a little tired of this sardine can, myself," Larkwell put in."Let's get on our Sunday duds and blow. I'd like to do the town." Therewas a murmur of assent. Nagel, who was monitoring the oxygen pressuregauge, spoke affirmatively. "No leaks."

  "Good," Crag said with relief. He took a moment off to feel exultant butthe mood quickly vanished. There was work ahead--sheer drudgery.

  "Check suit pressure," he ordered.

  They waited a moment longer while they tested pressure, the interphones,and adjusted to the lack of body weight before Crag moved toward thehatch. Prochaska prompted them to actuate their temperature controls:

  "It's going to be hot out there."

  Crag nodded, checked his temperature dial and started to open the hatch.The lock-lever resisted his efforts for a moment. He tested the dogssecuring the door. Several of them appeared jammed. Panic touched hismind. He braced his body, moving against one of the lock levers with allhis strength. It gave, then another. He loosened the last lock bracedagainst the blast of escaping air. The hatch exploded open.

  He stood for a moment looking at the ground, some twenty feet below. Themetal framework now crumpled below the tail had done its work. It hadstruck, failing, and in doing so had absorbed a large amount of impactenergy which otherwise would have been absorbed by the body of therocket with possible damage to the space cabin.

  The Aztec's tail fins were buried in what appeared to be a powdery ash.The rocket was canted slightly but, he thought, not dangerously so.Larkwell broke out the rope ladder provided for descent and was lookingbusy. Now it was his turn to shine. He hooked the ladder over two pegsand let the other end fall to the ground. He tested it then straightenedup and turned to Crag.

  "You may depart, Sire."

  Crag grinned and started down the ladder. It was clumsy work. The bulkand rigidity of his suit made his movements uncertain, difficult. Hedescended slowly, testing each step. He hesitated at the last rung,thinking: _This is it!_ He let his foot dangle above the surface for amoment before plunging it down into the soft ash mantle, then walked afew feet, ankle deep in a fine gray powder. First human foot to touchthe moon, he thought. The first human foot ever to step beyond theworld. Yeah, the human race was on the way--led by Adam Philip Crag. Hefelt good.

  It occurred to him then that he was not the real victor. That honorbelonged to a man 240,000 miles away. Gotch had won the moon. It hadbeen the opaque-eyed Colonel who had directed the conquest. He, Crag,was merely a foot soldier. Just one of the troops. All at once he felthumble.

  Prochaska came down next, followed by Nagel. Larkwell was last. Theystood in a half-circle looking at each other, awed by the thing they haddone. No one spoke. They shifted their eyes outward, hungrily over theplain, marveling at the world they had inherited. It was a bleak,hostile world encompassed in a bowl whose vast depressed interioralternately was burned and frozen by turn. To their north the rim ofArzachel towered ten thousand feet, falling away as it curved over thehorizon to the east and west. The plain to the south was a flat expanseof gray punctuated by occasional rocky knolls and weird, needle-sharppinnacles, some of which towered to awesome heights.

  Southeast a long narrow spur of rock rose and crawled over the floor ofthe crater for several miles before it dipped again into its ashy bed.Crag calculated that a beeline to Bandit would just about skirt thesoutheast end of the spur. Another rock formation dominated themiddle-expanse of the plain to the south. It rose, curving over thecrater floor like the spinal column of some gigantic lizard--a greatcrescent with its horns pointed toward their present position. Prochaskapromptly dubbed it "Backbone Ridge," a name that stuck.

  Crag suddenly remembered what he had to do, and coughed meaningfullyinto his lip mike. The group fell silent. He faced the distant northerncliffs and began to speak:

  "I, Adam Crag, by the authority vested in me by the Government of theUnited States of America, do hereby claim this land, and all the landsof the moon, as legal territory of the United States of America, to be adominion of the United States of America, subject to its Government andlaws."

  When he finished, he was quiet for a minute. "For the record, this isPickering Field. I think he'd like that," he added. There was a lump inhis throat.

  Prochaska said quietly, "Gotch will like it, too. Hadn't we betterrecord that and transmit it to Alpine?"

  "It's already recorded." Crag grinned. "All but the Pickering Fieldpart. Gotch wrote it out himself."

  "Confident bastard." Larkwell smiled. "He had a lot more faith than Idid."

  "Especially the way you brought that stovepipe down," Nagel i
nterjected.There was a moment of startled silence.

  Prochaska said coldly. "I hope you do your job as well."

  Nagel looked provocatively at him but didn't reply.

  Larkwell had been studying the terrain. "Wish Able had made it," he saidwistfully. "I'd like to get started on that airlock. It's going to be ahoney to build."

  "Amen." Crag swept his eyes over the ashy surface. "The scientistsfigure that falling meteorites may be our biggest hazard."

  "Not if we follow the plan of building our airlock in a rill," Larkwellinterjected. "Then the only danger would be from stuff coming straightdown."

  "Agreed. But the fact remains that we lost Able. We'll have to chanceliving in the Aztec until Drone Baker arrives."

  "If it makes it."

  "It'll make it," Crag answered with certainty. Their safe landing hadboosted his confidence. They'd land Baker and Charlie, in that order, hethought. They'd locate a shallow rill; then they'd build an airlock toprotect them against chance meteorites. That's the way they'd do it;one ... two ... three....

  "We've got it whipped," Prochaska observed, but his voice didn't holdthe certainty of his words.

  Crag said, "I was wondering if we couldn't assess the danger. It mightnot be so great...."

  "How?" Prochaska asked curiously.

  "No wind, no air, no external forces to disturb the ash mantle, exceptfor meteorites. Any strike would leave a trace. We might smooth off agiven area and check for hits after a couple of days. That would givesome idea of the danger." He faced Prochaska.

  "What do you think?"

  "But the ash itself is meteorite dust," he protested.

  "We could at least chart the big hits--those large enough to damage therocket."

  "We'll know if any hit," Larkwell prophesied grimly.

  "Maybe not;" Nagel cut in. "Supposing it's pinhole size? The air couldseep out and we wouldn't know it until too late."

  Crag said decisively. "That means we'll have to maintain a watch overthe pressure gauge."

  "That won't help if it's a big chunk." Prochaska scraped his toe throughthe ash. "The possibility's sort of disconcerting."

  "Too damned many occupational hazards for me," Larkwell ventured. "Imust have had rocks in my head when I volunteered for this one."

  "All brawn and no brain." Crag gave a wry smile. "That's the kind offodder that's needed for deep space."

  Prochaska said, "We ought to let Gotch know he's just acquired a fewmore acres."

  "Right." Crag hesitated a moment. "Then we'll check out on Bandit."

  "Why?" Larkwell asked.

  "There might be some survivors."

  "Let them rot," Nagel growled.

  "That's for me to decide," Crag said coldly. He stared hard at theoxygen man. "We're still human."

  Nagel snapped, "They're damned murderers."

  "That's no reason we should be." Crag turned back toward the ladder.When he reached it, he paused and looked skyward. The sun was a precisecircle of intolerable white light set amid the ebony of space. The starsseemed very close.

  The space cabin was a vacuum. At Nagel's suggestion they kept pressureto a minimum to preserve oxygen. When they were out of their suits,Prochaska got on the radio. He had difficulty raising Alpine Base,working for several minutes before he got an answering signal. When theconnection was made, Crag moved into Prochaska's place and switched tohis ear insert microphone. He listened to the faint slightly metallicvoice for a moment before he identified it as Gotch's. He thought: _TheOld Man must be living in the radio shack._ He adjusted his headset andsent a lengthy report.

  If Gotch were jubilant over the fruition of his dream, he carefullyconcealed it. He congratulated Crag and the crew, speaking in preciseformal terms, and almost immediately launched into a barrage ofquestions regarding their next step. The Colonel's reaction nettled him.Lord, he should be jubilant ... jumping with joy ... waltzing thetelephone gal. Instead he was speaking with a business-as-usual manner.Gotch left it up to Crag on whether or not to attempt a rescueexpedition.

  "But not if it endangers the expedition in any way," he added. Heinformed him that Drone Baker had been launched without mishap. "Justbe ready for her," he cautioned. "And again--congratulations,Commander." There was a pause....

  "I think Pickering Field is a fitting name." The voice in the earphonesdied away and Crag found himself listening to the static of space. Hepulled the sets off and turned to Nagel.

  "How much oxygen would a man need for a round trip to Bandit, assuming atotal distance of seven miles."

  "It's not that far," Prochaska reminded.

  "There might be detours."

  Nagel calculated rapidly. "An extra cylinder would do it."

  "Okay, Larkwell and I'll go. You and Prochaska stand by." Crag caughtthe surprised look on the Chief's face.

  "There might be communication problems," he explained. Privately, he haddecided that no man would be left alone until the mystery of the timebomb was cleared up.

  Prochaska nodded. The arrangement made sense. Nagel appeared pleasedthat he didn't have to make the long trek. Larkwell, on the other hand,seemed glad to have been chosen.