by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 9
There is no dawn on the moon, no dusk, no atmosphere to catch and spreadthe light of the sun. When the lunar night ends--a night two earth weekslong--the sun simply pops over the horizon, bringing its intolerableheat. But the sky remains black--black and sprinkled with stars agleamwith a light unknown on earth. At night the temperature is 250 degreesbelow zero; by day it is the heat of boiling water. Yet the sun is butan intense circle of white aloft in a nigrescent sky. It was a worldsuch as Crag had scarcely dreamed of--alien, hostile, fantastic in itsarchitecture--a bizarre world spawned by a nature in revolt.
Crag stopped to adjust the temperature control on his suit. He startedto mop his brow before he remembered the helmet. Larkwell saw thegesture, and behind his thick face plate his lips wrinkled in a grin."Go on, scratch it," he challenged.
"This moon's going to take a lot of getting used to." Crag swept hiseyes over the bleak plain. "And they send four men to conquer this."
"It ain't conquered yet," Larkwell spat.
Crag's answer was a sober reflection. "No, it isn't," he said quietly.He contemplated the soot-filled sky, its magic lanterns, then lookeddown again at the plain.
"Let's get moving."
* * * * *
It was dawn--dawn in the sense that the sun had climbed above thehorizon. The landing had been planned for sunup--the line which dividednight from day--to give them the benefit of a two-week day beforeanother instantaneous onslaught of night.
They moved slowly across the ashy floor of the crater, occasionallycircling small knolls or jagged rock outcroppings. Despite thecumbersome suits and the burden of the extra oxygen cylinder eachcarried, they made good time. Crag led the way with Larkwell closebehind, threading his way toward the spot where the enemy rocket hadfallen from the sky. They had to stop several times to rest and regulatetheir temperature controls. Despite the protective garments they weresoon sweating and panting, gasping for breath with the feeling ofsuffocation. Crag felt the water trickling down his body in rivuletsand began to itch, a sensation that was almost a pain.
"It's not going to be a picnic," Larkwell complained. His voice soundedexhausted in the earphones.
Crag grunted without answering. His feet ploughed up little spurts ofdust which fell as quickly as they rose. Like water dropping, hethought. He wondered how long they would be able to endure the heat.Could they possibly adapt their bodies to such an environment? What ofthe cold of night? The questions bothered him. He tried to visualizewhat it would be like to plunge from boiling day to the bitterly coldnight within the space of moments. Would they be able to take it? Hegrinned to himself. They'd find out!
At the next halt they looked back at the Aztec.
"We don't seem to be getting anywhere," Larkwell observed. Cragcontemplated the rocket. He was right. The ship seemed almost as largeand clear as ever.
"Your eyes trick you," he said. "It's just another thing we'll have toget used to." He let his eyes linger on the plain. It was washed with abrilliant light which even their glare shields didn't diminish. Eachrock, each outcrop cast long black shadows--black silhouettes againstthe white ash. There were no grays, no intermediate shades. Everythingwas either black or white. His eyes began to ache and he turned themfrom the scene. He nodded at Larkwell and resumed his trek. He wastrudging head down when he suddenly stopped. A chasm yawned at his feet.
"Mighty wide," Larkwell observed, coming up.
"Yeah," said Crag, indecisively. The rift was about twenty feet wide,its bottom lost in black shadows.
Larkwell studied the chasm carefully. "Might be just the rill we needfor an airlock. If it's not too deep," he added. He picked up a boulderand dropped it over the edge, waiting expectantly. Crag chuckled. Theconstruction man had forgotten that sound couldn't be transmittedthrough a vacuum. Larkwell caught the laugh in his earphones and smiledweakly.
He said sheepishly, "Something else to learn."
"We've plenty to learn." Crag looked both ways. To the right the chasmseemed to narrow and, although he wasn't sure, end.
"Let's try it," he suggested. Larkwell nodded agreement. They trudgedalong the edge of the fissure, walking slowly to conserve their energy.The plain became more uneven. Small outcroppings of black glassy rockpunctured the ash, becoming more numerous as they progressed. Occasionalsaw-toothed needles pierced the sky. Several times they stopped andlooked back at the Aztec. It was a black cylinder, smaller yet seeminglyclose.
Crag's guess was right. The chasm narrowed abruptly and terminated atthe base of a small knoll. Both rockets were now hidden by interveningrocks. He hesitated before striking out, keeping Backbone Ridge to hisright. The ground became progressively more uneven. They trudged onwardfor over a mile before he caught sight of the Aztec again. He paused,with the feeling something was wrong. Larkwell put it into words.
"Lost."
"Not lost, but off course." Crag took a moment to get his bearings andthen struck out again thinking their oxygen supply couldn't stand manyof these mistakes.
"How you doing, Skipper?"
Crag gave a start before remembering that Prochaska and Nagel were cutinto their intercom.
"Lousy," he told them. He gave a brief run-down.
"Just happened to think that I could help guide you. I'll work you withthe scope," Prochaska said.
"Of course," Crag exclaimed, wondering why they hadn't thought of itbefore. One thing was certain: they'd have to start remembering a lotof things. Thereafter, they checked with Prochaska every few minutes.
The ground constantly changed as they progressed. One moment it waslevel, dusty with ash; the next it was broken by low rocky ridges andinterlacing chasms. Minutes extended into seeming hours and they had tostop for rest from time to time. Crag was leading the way across a smallravine when Larkwell's voice brought him up short:
"Commander, we're forgetting something."
"What?"
"Radcounters. Mine's whispering a tune I didn't like."
"Not a thing to worry about," Crag assured him. "The raw ores aren'tthat potent." Nevertheless he unhooked his counter and studied it.Larkwell was right. They were on hot ground but the count was low.
"Won't bother us a bit," he affirmed cheerfully.
Larkwell's answer was a grunt. Crag checked the instrument several timesthinking that before long--when they were settled--they would mark offthe boundaries of the lode. Gotch would want that. The count roseslightly. Once he caught Larkwell nervously consulting his meter.Clearly the construction boss wasn't too happy over their position. Cragwanted to tell him he had been reading too many Sunday supplements butdidn't.
Prochaska broke in, "You're getting close." His voice was a faintwhisper over the phones. "Maybe you'd better make a cautious approach."
Crag remembered the fate of Drone Able and silently agreed. Thereafterhe kept his eyes peeled. They climbed a small knoll and saw Bandit. Heabruptly halted, waiting until Larkwell reached his side.
The rocket lay at the base of the slope, which fell away before them. Itwas careened at a crazy angle with its base crumpled. A wide cleftrunning half way to its nose was visible. Crag studied the rocketcarefully.
"Might still be oxygen in the space cabin," he ventured finally. "Thebreak in the hull might not reach that far."
"It does," Larkwell corrected. His eyes, trained in construction work,had noted small cracks in the metal extending up alongside the hatch.
"No survivors in there," he grunted.
Crag said thoughtfully: "Might be, if they had on their pressure suits.And they would have," he added.
He hesitated before striking across the clearing, then began moving downthe slope. Larkwell followed slowly. As he neared the rocket Crag sawthat it lacked any type of failing device to absorb the landing impact.That, at least, had been one secret kept, he thought. He was wonderinghow to get into the space cabin when Larkwell solved the problem. Hedrew a thin hemp line from a leg pocket and began uncoiling it. Cragsmile
d approval.
"Never without one in the construction business," he explained. Hestudied Bandit. "Maybe I can hook it over the top of that busted tailfin, then work my way up the break in the hull."
"Let me try," Crag offered. The climb looked hazardous.
"This is my province." Larkwell snorted. He ran his eye over the shipbefore casting the line. He looked surprised when it shot high above theintended target point.
"Keep forgetting the low gravity," he apologized. He tried again. On thethird throw he hooked the line over the torn tailfin. He rubbed hishands against his suit then started upward, climbing clumsily, eachmovement exaggerated by the bulky suit. He progressed slowly, testingeach step. Crag held his breath. Larkwell gripped the line with his bodyswung outward, his feet planted against the vertical metal, remindingCrag of a human fly. He stopped to rest just below the level of thespace cabin.
"Thought a man was supposed to be able to jump thirty feet on the moon,"he panted.
"You can if you peel those duds off," Crag replied cheerfully. He ranhis eye over the break noting the splintered metal. "Be careful of yoursuit."
Larkwell didn't answer. He was busy again trying to pull his bodyupward, using the break in the hull to obtain finger grips. Only themoon's low gravity allowed him to perform what looked like an impossibletask. He finally reached a point alongside the hatch and paused,breathing heavily. He rested a moment, then carefully inserted his handinto the break in the hull. After a moment he withdrew it, and fumbledin his leg pocket withdrawing a switchblade knife.
"Got to cut through the lining," he explained. He worked the knifearound inside the break for several minutes, then closed the blade andreinserted his hand, feeling around until he located the lockbar.
He tugged. It didn't give. He braced his body and exerted all of hisstrength. This time it moved. He rested a moment then turned hisattention to the remaining doglocks. In short time he had the hatchopen. Carefully, then, he pulled his body across to the black rectangleand disappeared inside.
"See anything?" Crag shifted his feet restlessly.
"Dead men." Larkwell's voice sounded relieved over the phones. "Smashedface plates." There was a long moment of silence. Crag waitedimpatiently.
"Just a second," he finally reported. "Looks like a live one." There wasanother interval of silence while Crag stewed. Finally he appeared inthe opening with a hemp ladder.
"Knew they had to have some way of getting out of this trap," heannounced triumphantly. He knelt and secured one end to the hatchcombing and let the other end drop to the ground.
Crag climbed to meet him. Larkwell extended a hand and helped himthrough the hatch. One glance at the interior of the cabin told him thatany life left was little short of a miracle. The man in the pilot's seatlay with his faceplate smashed against the instrument panel. The top ofhis fiberglass helmet had shattered and the top of his head was a bloodymess. A second crewman was sprawled over the communication console withhis face smashed into the radarscope. His suit had been ripped fromshoulder to waist and one leg was twisted at a crazy angle. Crag turnedhis eyes away.
"Here," Larkwell grunted. He was bent over the third and last crewman,who had been strapped in a bucket seat immediately behind the pilot.Crag moved to his side and looked down at the recumbent figure. Theman's suit seemed to have withstood the terrible impact. His helmetlooked intact, and his faceplate was clouded.
Prochaska nodded affirmatively. "Breathing," he said.
Crag knelt and checked the unconscious man as best he could beforefinally getting back to his feet.
"It's going to be a helluva job getting him back."
Larkwell's eyes opened with surprise. "You mean we're going to lug thatbastard back to the Aztec?"
"We are."
Larkwell didn't reply. Crag loosened the unconscious man from hisharnessing. Larkwell watched for a while before stooping to help. Whenthe last straps were free they pulled him close to the edge of the hatchopening. Crag made a mental inventory of the cabin while Larkwellunscrewed two metal strips from a bulkhead and laced straps from thesafety harnessing between them, making a crude stretcher.
Crag opened a narrow panel built into the rear bulkhead andinvoluntarily whistled into his lip mike. It contained twoshort-barreled automatic rifles and a supply of ammunition. Larkwelleyed the arms speculatively.
"Looks like they expected good hunting," he observed.
"Yeah," Crag grimly agreed. He slammed the metal panel shut and lookeddistastefully at the unconscious man. "I've a damned good notion toleave him here."
"That's what I was thinking."
Crag debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're electedas angels of mercy. Well, let's go."
"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss spat. Helooped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled him to thebrink of the opening.
"Ought to shove him out and let him bounce a while," he growled.
Crag didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metalstanchion and signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through thehatch. Crag let the line out slowly until it became slack. Larkwellstraightened up and leaned against the hatch combing with a foolish lookon his face. Crag took one look at his gaping expression.
"Oxygen," he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extracylinder from his belt and hooked it into Larkwell's suit, turning thevalve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatchcombing before Crag managed to pull him to safety.
Within moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quicklychecked his own oxygen. It was low. Too low. The time they had losttaking the wrong route ... the time taken to open Bandit's hatch ... hadupset Nagel's oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember inthe future. He switched cylinders, then made a rapid calculation. It wasevident they couldn't carry the injured man back with the amount ofoxygen remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem toNagel.
"Try one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit."
"No go. I've already looked them over." He kicked the problem around inhis mind.
"Here's the routine," he told him. "You start out to meet us with acouple of extra cylinders. We'll take along a couple of Bandit's sparesto last this critter until you can modify the valves on his suit to fitour equipment. Prochaska can guide the works. Okay?"
"Roger," Prochaska cut in. Nagel gave an affirmative grunt.
Crag lowered two of Bandit's cylinders and the stretcher to the floor ofthe crater, then took a last look around the cabin. Gotch, he knew,would ask him a thousand technical questions regarding the rocket'sconstruction, equipment, and provisioning. He filed the mental picturesaway for later analysis and turned to Larkwell.
"Let's go." They descended to the plain and rolled the unconsciouscrewman onto the stretcher. Crag grunted as he hoisted his end. Itwasn't going to be easy.
The return trip proved a nightmare. Despite the moon's low surfacegravity--one-sixth that of earth--the stretcher seemed an intolerableweight pulling at their arms. They trudged slowly toward the Aztec withCrag in the lead, their feet kicking up little fountains of dust.
Before they had gone half a mile, they were sweating profusely and theirarms and shoulders ached under their burden. Larkwell walked silently,steadily, but his breath was becoming a hoarse pant in Crag's earphones.The thought came to Crag that they wouldn't make it if, by any chance,Nagel failed to meet them. But he can't fail--not with Prochaska guidingthem, he thought.
They reached the end of the rill and stopped to rest. Crag checked hisoxygen meter. Not good. Not good at all, but he didn't say anything toLarkwell. The construction boss swung his eyes morosely over the plainand cursed.
"Nine planets and thirty-one satellites in the Solar System and we hadto pick this dog," he grumbled. "Gotch must be near-sighted."
Crag sighed and picked up his end of the stretcher. When Larkwell hadfollowed suit they resumed their trek. They were moving around th
e baseof a small knoll when Larkwell's foot struck a pothole in the ash and hestumbled. He dropped the end of the stretcher in trying to regain hisbalance. It struck hard against the ground, transmitting the jolt toCrag's aching shoulders. He lowered his end of the stretcher, fearfulthe plow had damaged the injured man's helmet. Larkwell watchedunsympathetically while he examined it.
"Won't make much difference," he said.
Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
"Yeah, carrying Lucifer."
The helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. Theyhoisted the stretcher and resumed their slow trek toward the Aztec.
Crag's body itched from perspiration. His face was hot, flushed and hisheart thudded in his ears. Larkwell's breathing became a harsh rasp inthe interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Cragthought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meterseveral times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears intowords.
"We'd better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," hegrowled. "We're not going to make it this way."
"Nagel should reach us soon."
"Soon won't be soon enough."
"Nagel! Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
"Moving right along." The oxygen man's voice was a flat imperturbedtwang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm wasmaddening. But it was their necks that were in danger. He repressed hisanger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemycrewman. If he lived?
In short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point oftelling him to shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He wasmoving slowly, stooped under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders.He appeared somewhat like an ungainly robot, moving with mechanicalsteps--the movements of a machine rather than a man. Crag kept his eyeson him. Nagel never faltered, never changed pace. His figure grewsteadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray ash. Cragsuddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked thestrength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added tohis despair.
They met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash andsquirmed to straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure inthe stretcher, then at Crag.
"Doesn't make much sense to me," he said critically. "Where are we goingto get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?"
"That's my worry," Crag snapped shortly.
"Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen man."
Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was none. Nagel was merelystating a fact--an honest worry. His temper was subsiding when Larkwellspoke.
"He's right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill.Hell, we've got worries enough without...."
"Knock it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence duringwhich the others looked defiantly at him.
"Stop the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He felt on theverge of an explosion, wanted to lash out. Take it easy, he toldhimself.
With fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier.Prochaska was waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to thesafety of the space cabin. When it was pressurized they removed theirsuits and Crag began to strip the heavy space garments from the injuredman's body. He finished and stepped back, letting him lie on the deck.
They stood in a tight half-circle, silently studying the inert figure.It was that of an extremely short man, about five feet, Crag judged, andthin. A thinness without emaciation. His face was pale, haggard and,like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He appeared in hislate thirties or early forties but Crag surmised he was much younger.His chest rose and fell irregularly and his breathing was harsh. Cragknelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow, fast.
"I don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries ...or just a bad concussion."
"To hell with him," spat Larkwell.
Prochaska said, "He'll either live or die. In either case there's notmuch we can do about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact.Crag nodded agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding overthe possible complications of having an enemy in their midst when hisnostrils caught a familiar whiff. He turned, startled. The Chief washolding a pot of coffee.
"I did smuggle one small helping," he confessed.
Crag looked thoughtfully at the pot. "I should cite you for acourt-martial. However ..." He reached for the cup the Chief wasextending.
They drank the coffee slowly, savoring each drop, while Larkwelloutlined their next step. It was one Crag had been worrying about.
"As you know, the plans call for living in the Aztec until we can get asheltered airlock into operation," Larkwell explained. "To do that wegotta lower this baby to the horizontal so I can loosen the afterburnersection and clear out the gunk. Then we can get the prime airlockinstalled and working. That should give us ample quarters until we canbuild the permanent lock--maybe in that rill we passed."
"We got to rush that," Nagel cut in. "Right now we lose total cabinpressure every time we stir out of this trap. We can't keep it up forlong."
Crag nodded. Nagel was right. The airlock had to be the first order ofbusiness. The plans called for just such a move and, accordingly, therocket had been designed with such a conversion in mind. Only it hadbeen planned as a short-term stopgap--one to be used only until abelow-surface airlock could be constructed. Now that Drone Able had beenlost--
"Golly, what'll we do with all the room?" Prochaska broke in humorously.He flicked his eyes around the cabin. "Just imagine, we'll be able tosleep stretched out instead of doubled up in a bucket seat."
Larkwell took up the conversation and they listened while he outlinedthe step-by-step procedure. It was his show and they gave him fullstage. He suggested they might be able to use one of Aztec's now uselessservo motors in the task. When he finished, Crag glanced down at theBandit crewman. Pale blue eyes stared back at him. Ice-blue, calm, yettinged with mockery. They exchanged a long look.
"Feel better?" Crag finally asked, wondering if by any chance he spokeEnglish.
"Yes, thank you." The voice held the barest suggestion of an accent.
"We brought you to our ship ..." Crag stopped, wondering how to proceed.After all the man was an enemy. A dangerous one at that.
"So I see." The voice was laconic. "Why?"
"We're human," snapped Crag brutally. The pale blue eyes regarded himintently.
"I'm Adam Crag, Commander," he added. The Bandit crewman tried to pushhimself up on his elbow. His face blanched and he fell back.
"I seem to be a trifle weak," he apologized. He looked at the circle offaces before his eyes settled back on Crag. "My name is Richter. OttoRichter."
Prochaska said, "That's a German name."
"I am German."
"On an Iron Curtain rocket?" Nagel asked sarcastically. Richter gave theoxygen man a long cool look.
"That seems to be the case," he said finally. The group fell silent. Itwas Crag's move. He hesitated. When he spoke his tone was decisive.
"We're stuck with you. For the time being you may regard yourself asconfined. You will not be allowed any freedom ... until we decide whatto do with you."
"I understand."
"As soon as we modify the valves on your suit to fit our cylinders we'regoing to move you outside." He instructed Nagel to get busy on thevalves, then turned to Larkwell.
"Let's get along with lowering this baby."
