by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 10
"Gordon Nagel?" The professor turned the name over in his mind. "Yes, Ibelieve I recall him. Let's see, that would have been about...." Hepaused, looking thoughtfully into space.
The agent said, "Graduated in '55. One of your honor students."
"Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten?" The Professor folded his handsacross his plump stomach and settled back in his chair.
"I seem to recall him as sort of an intense, nervous type," he said atlast. "Sort of withdrawn but, as you mentioned, quite brilliant. Nowthat I think of it--"
He abruptly stopped speaking and looked at the agent with a startledface.
"You mean the man in the moon?" he blurted.
"Yes, that's the one."
"Ah, no wonder the name sounded so familiar. But, of course, we have somany famous alumni. Ruthill University prides itself--"
"Of course," the agent cut in.
The professor gave him a hurt look before he began talking again. Herambled at length. Every word he uttered was taped on the agent's pocketrecorder.
* * * * *
"Gordon Nagel, the young man on the moon flight? Why certainly I recallyoung Nagel," the high school principal said. "A fine student ... one ofthe best." He looked archly at the agent down a long thin nose.
"Braxton High School is extremely proud of Gordon Nagel. Extremelyproud. If I say so myself he has set a mark for other young men tostrive for."
"Of course," the agent agreed.
"This is a case which well vindicates the stress we've put on thephysical and life sciences," the principal continued. "It is theobjective of Braxton High School to give every qualified student thegroundwork he needs for later academic success. That is, students withsufficiently high I.Q.," he added.
"Certainly, but about Gordon Nagel...?"
"Yes, of course." The principal began to speak again. The agent relaxed,listening. He didn't give a damn about the moon but he was extremelyinterested in the thirty some years of Nagel's life preceding that trip.Very much so. He left the school thinking that Nagel owed quite a lot toBraxton High. At least the principal had inferred as much.
* * * * *
"Yes, I did go with Gordon for a while," Mrs. LeRoy Farwell said. "Butof course it was never serious. Just an occasional school dance orsomething. He might be famous but, well, frankly he wasn't my type. Hewas an awful drip." Her eyes brushed the agent's face meaningfully.
"I like 'em live, if you know what I mean."
"Certainly, Mrs. Farwell," the agent said gravely. "But about Nagel...?"
There were many people representing three decades of contact with GordonNagel. Some of them recalled him only fleetingly. Others rambled atlength. Odd little entries came to life to fit into the dossier.Photographs and records were exhumed. Gordon Nagel ... Gordon Nagel....
The file on Gordon Nagel grew.
* * * * *
Colonel Michael Gotch didn't like the idea of an addition to the Azteccrew. Didn't like it at all. He informed Crag that the rescue had beenentirely unnecessary. Unrealistic, was the word he had used. He wasextremely interested in the fact that Bandit housed an arsenal. Hesuggested, in view of Drone Able's loss, they shouldn't overlookBandit's supplies.
"Especially as you have another mouth to feed," he said blandly.
Crag agreed. He didn't say so but he had already planned just such amove. The Colonel immediately launched into a barrage of questionsconcerning the crashed rocket. He seemed grieved when Crag couldn'tsupply answers down to the last detail.
"Look," Crag finally exploded, "give us time ... time. We just got here.Remember?"
"Yes ... yes, I know. But the information is vital," Gotch said firmly."I would appreciate it if you would try...."
Crag cursed and snapped the communicator off.
"What's wrong? The bird colonel heckling you?"
"Hounding is the word," Crag corrected. He fixed the Chief with abaleful eye and uttered an epithet with regard to the Colonel'sancestry. Prochaska chuckled.
Larkwell quickly demonstrated that he knew the Aztec inside and out farbetter than did any of the others. Aside from several large cablessupplied expressly for the purpose of lowering the rocket, he obtainedthe rest of the equipment needed from the ship.
Under his direction two winches were set up about thirty yards from theship and a cable run to each to form a V-line. A second line ran fromeach winch to a nearby shallow gully. Heavy weights--now useless partsof the ship's engines--were fastened to these and buried. The lines wereintended to anchor the winches during the critical period of loweringthe rocket. Finally Larkwell ran a guide line from the Aztec's nose to athird winch. This one was powered by an electric motor which was poweredby the ship's batteries.
While Larkwell and Nagel prepared to lower the rocket Crag smoothed offan area of the plain's surface and marked off a twenty-foot square. Hefinished and looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. Richter's eyeswere filled with interest.
"Using it to chart the frequency of meteorite falls," Crag explained."We'd like to get an idea of the hazard."
"Plenty," Richter said succinctly. He started to add more and stopped.Crag felt the urge to pump him but refrained. The least he becameinvolved the better, he thought. It didn't escape him that the Germanseemed to have recovered to a remarkable extent. Well, that wassomething else to remember. Richter injured was one thing. But Richterrecovered ...
He snapped the thought off and turned toward the base of the rocket,indicating that the German should follow. Larkwell was testing thewinches and checking the cables when they arrived.
"About ready," he told Crag.
"Then let her go."
The construction boss nodded and barked a command to Prochaska andNagel, who were manning the restraining winches. When they acknowledgedthey were ready he strode to the power winch.
"Okay." His voice was a terse crack in the interphones. The Aztecshuddered on its base, teetering, then its nose began to cant downward.It moved slowly in an arc across the sky.
"Take up," Larkwell barked into the mike. The guide lines tautened.
"Okay."
This time Prochaska and Nagel fed line through the winches more slowly.The nose of the rocket had passed through sixty degrees of arc when itstail began to inch backward, biting into the plain.
"Hold up!" Larkwell circled the rocket and approached the tailfins fromone side. He looked up at the body of the ship, then back at the base.Satisfied it would hold he ordered the winches started. The nose movedslowly toward the ground, swaying slightly from side to side. In anothermoment it lay on its belly on the plain.
"Now the real work begins," Larkwell told Crag. "We gotta cleaneverything out of that stovepipe and get the airlock rigged." His voicewas complaining but his face indicated the importance he attached to thejob.
"How long do you figure it'll take?"
Larkwell rubbed his faceplate thoughtfully. "About two days, with somecatnaps and some help."
"Good." Crag looked thoughtfully at Richter. "Any reason you can'thelp?" he asked sharply.
"None at all," Richter answered solemnly.
While Larkwell and Nagel labored in the tail section, Crag andProchaska rearranged the space cabin. The chemical commode was placed inone corner and a nylon curtain rigged around it--their one concession tocivilization. Crag was conscious of Richter's eyes followingthem--weighing, analyzing, speculating. He caught himself swivelingaround at odd times to check on him, but Richter seemed unconcerned.
Electric power from the batteries was limited. For the most part theywould be living on space rations--food concentrates supplemented withvitamin pills--and a square of chocolate daily per man. Later, when theairlock was installed in the area now occupied by the afterburners andmachinery, they would be able to appreciably extend their livingquarters. Until then, Crag thought wryly, they would live likesardines--with an enemy in their midst.
An enemy and a saboteur, hementally corrected. Aside from that there was the constant danger frommeteorite falls. He shook his head despairingly. Life on the moon wasn'tall it could be. Not by a damn sight.
Nagel was becoming perturbed over their oxygen consumption. He had setup the small tanks containing algae in a nutrient solution, tending themlike a mother hen. In time, if the cultivation were successful, thesmall algae farm would convert the carbon dioxide from their respirationinto oxygen. At the present time the carbon dioxide was being absorbedby chemical means. As things stood, it was necessary for the entire crewto don spacesuits every time one of them left the cabin. Each time thecabin air was lost in the vacuum of the moon. Crag pointed out there wasno alternative until the airlock was completed, a fact which didn't keepNagel from complaining.
* * * * *
Otto Richter recovered fast. Before another day had passed--the Azteccontinued to operate by earth clock--he seemed to have completelyrecovered. It was evident that concussion and shock had been the extentof his injuries. Crag didn't know whether to be sorry or glad, hedidn't, in fact, know what to do with the man. He gave firm orders thatRichter was never to be left alone--not for a moment.
He told him: "You will not be allowed in the area of any of theelectronic equipment. First time you do ..." He looked meaningfully athim.
"I understand," the German said. Thereafter, except for occasional tripsto the commode, or to help with work, he kept to the corner of the spacecabin allotted him.
Larkwell came up for the evening meal wearing a grim look. He extendedhis hand toward Crag, holding a jagged chunk of rock nearly the size ofa baseball.
Crag took the hunk and hefted it thoughtfully. "Meteorite?" The othersclustered around.
"Yeah. I saw a hole in that cleared off section and reached down. Thereshe was, big as life."
"If that had hit this pipe we'd be dead ducks," Prochaska observed.
"But it didn't hit," Crag corrected, trying to allay any gatheringnervousness. "It just means that we're going to have to get going on therill airlock as soon as possible."
"How will loss of Able affect that?" Nagel asked curiously.
"Only in the matter of size," Crag explained. "The possible loss of adrone was taken into account. The plastiblocks are constructed to makeany size shelter possible. We'll start immediately when Baker lands." Helooked thoughtfully at the men. "Let's not borrow any trouble."
"Yeah, there's plenty without borrowing any more," Prochaska agreed. Hesmiled cheerfully. "I vote we all stop worrying and eat."
Another complication arose. Drone Baker would be in orbit the followingmorning. Prochaska had to be prepared to bring it down. He was busymoving his equipment into one compact corner opposite the commode. Herigged a curtain around it, partly for privacy but mainly to mark off adefinite area prohibited to Richter.
The communicator was becoming another problem that harried Crag. Agovernment geologist wanted a complete description of Arzachel's rockstructure. A space medicine doctor had a lot of questions about theworking of the oxygen-carbon dioxide exchange system. Someone else--Cragwas never quite sure who--wanted an exact description of how the Aztechad handled during letdown. In the end he got on the communicator andcurtly asked for Gotch.
"Keep these people off our backs until we land Drone Baker," he toldhim. "It's not headquarters for some damned quiz program."
"You're big news," Gotch placated. "What you tell us will help withfuture rockets."
"Like a mineral description of the terrain?"
"Even that. But cheer up, Commander. The worst is yet to come." He brokeoff before Crag could snap a reply. Prochaska grinned at hisdiscomfiture.
"That's what comes of being famous," he said. "We're wheels."
"A wheel on the moon." Crag looked questioningly at him. "Is that good?"
"Damned if I know. I haven't been here long enough."
* * * * *
Crag was surprised to see how rapidly work in the tail section wasprogressing. Larkwell had loosened the giant engines and fuel tanks andpulled them from the ship with power from one of the rocket's servomotors. They lay on the dusty floor of the plain, incongruous in theirnew setting. He thought it a harbinger of things to come. A rocketgarage on the floor of barren Arzachel. Four men attempting to build anempire from the hull of a space ship. In time it would be replaced by anairlock in a rill ... a military base ... a domed city. Pickering Fieldwould become a transportation center, perhaps the hub of the SolarSystem's transportation empire. First single freighters, then oretrains, would travel the highways of space between earth mother and herlong separated child. He sighed. The ore trains were a long way in thefuture.
Larkwell crawled out from the cavern he had hollowed in the hull andstretched. "Time for chow," he grunted. His voice over the interphonessounded tired. Nagel followed him looking morose. He didn't acknowledgeCrag's presence.
At evening by earth clock they ate their scant fare. They were unusuallysilent. The Chief seemed weary from his long vigil on the scope.Larkwell's face was sweaty, smudged with grease. He ate quickly, withthe air of a man preoccupied with weighty problems. Nagel was clearlybushed. Larkwell's fast pace had been too much for him. He wore a cross,irritable expression and avoided all conversation. Richter sat alone,seemingly unconcerned that he was a virtual prisoner, confined to onesmall corner of the cabin barely large enough to provide sleeping space.Crag had no feelings where he was concerned, neither resentment norsympathy. The German was just a happenstance, a castaway in the war forArzachel. Or, more probable, he thought, the war for the moon.
After chow the men took turns shaving with the single razor. It had beensupplied only because of the need to keep the oxygen ports in thehelmets free and to keep the lip mikes clear.
"Pure luxury," Prochaska said when his turn came. "Nothing's too goodfor the spaceman."
"Amen," Crag agreed. "I hope the next crew is going to get a bar ofsoap."
"For their sake I hope they pick something better than this crummyplanet," Larkwell grunted.
* * * * *
Drone Baker had entered the moon's gravisphere at the precise timespelled out by the earth computers. Its speed had dropped to a mere twohundred miles per hour. It began to accelerate, pulled by the moon,moving in a vast trajectory calculated to put it into a closing orbitaround the barren satellite. Prochaska picked it up and followed it onthe scope. Telemeter control from Alpine fired the first brakingrockets. The blast countered the moon's pull. Drone Baker was still aspeck on the scope--a solitary traveler rushing toward them through thevoid.
"Seems incredible it took us that long," Crag mused, studying theinstrument panel. He reached over and activated the analog. Back onearth saucers with faces lifted to the skies were tracking the drone'sflight. Their information was channeled into computer batteries,integrated, analyzed, and sent back into space. The wave train ended ina gridded scope--the analog Crag was viewing.
"Seemed a damned lot shorter when we were up there," he speculatedaloud.
"That's one experience that really telescopes time," the Chief agreed."I'd hate to have to sweat it out again."
"When do we take over?"
Prochaska glanced at the master chrono. "Not till 0810, give or take afew minutes. It depends on the final computations from Alpine."
"Better catch some sleep," Crag suggested. "It's going to be touchy oncewe get hold of it."
"We'll be damn lucky if we get it down in Arzachel."
"We'd better." Crag grinned. "Muff this and we might as well take outlunar citizenship."
"No thanks. Not interested."
"What's the matter, Max, no pioneer spirit?"
"Go to hell," Prochaska answered amiably.
"Now, Mr. Prochaska, that's no way to speak to your commanding officer,"Crag reproved with mock severity.
"Okay. Go to hell, Sir," he joked.
Richter was a problem. Someone
had to be awake at all times. Cragdecided to break the crew into watches, and laid out a tentativeschedule. He would take the first watch, Larkwell would relieve him atmidnight, and Nagel would take over at 0300. That way Prochaska wouldget a full night's sleep. He would need steady nerves come morning. Heoutlined the schedule to the crew. Neither Larkwell nor Nagel appearedenthusiastic over the prospect of initiating a watch regime, but neitherprotested openly.
When the others were asleep, Crag cut off the light to preserve batterypower. He studied the lunar landscape out the port, thinking it must bethe bleakest spot in the universe. He twisted his head and lookedstarward. The sky was a grab bag of suns. Off to one side giant Orionlooked across the gulf of space at Taurus and the Pleiades, the sevendaughters of Atlas.
