by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 12
"Max Prochaska was a real well-liked boy," Mrs. Arthur Bingham saidfirmly, "friendly with everyone in town. Of course, Vista was just asmall place then," she added reminiscently. "Not like now, especiallysince the helicopter factory moved in. I do declare, a soul wouldn'trecognize the place any longer, with all the housing tracts and the newsupermarket--"
"Certainly," the agent interjected, "but about Max Prochaska."
"Yes, of course." Mrs. Bingham bit her lip reflectively. "My husbandalways said Max would go places. I wish he could have lived to see it."For just a moment her eyes brimmed wetly, then she blew her nose, wipingthem in the process. The agent waited until she had composed herself.
"Little Max--I always think of him as Little Max," she explained--"wassmart and pleasant, real well liked at school. And he _always_ attendedchurch." She stressed the word always.
"Just think, now they say he's on the moon." Her eyes fixed the agentwith interest "You'd think he'd get dizzy."
* * * * *
The agent almost enjoyed tracing Max Prochaska's history, it was a neat,wrapped-up job, one that moved through a regular sequence. Teacher ...minister ... family doctor ... druggist ... scoutmaster ... athleticdirector--all the ties a small-town boy makes and retains. Everythingwas clear-cut, compact. Records, deeds, acquaintances--all in one handypackage. The memory of a man who grew up in a small town persisted,borne in the minds of people whose worlds were small. The Vista paperhad obligingly carried Prochaska's biography, right on the front page,under the headline: VISTAN LANDS ON MOON. The leading local drugstorewas featuring a Prochaska sundae and the Mayor of the town hadproclaimed MAX PROCHASKA week.
Clearly, Vista was proud of its native son, but not nearly as proud asthe elderly couple who still tended a chicken ranch on the outskirts oftown.
"Max is a good boy," Mrs. Prochaska said simply. Her husband beamedagreement.
On the surface, Prochaska's record seemed clean--a good student,well-liked, the usual array of girls, and nothing much in the way ofpeccadillos you could hang a hat on. The agent's last view of the townwas a sign at the city limits: VISTA--THE HOME OF MAX PROCHASKA.
* * * * *
Drone Baker looked a complete loss. It had smashed tail down onto theash covered plain about four miles to the southeast of the Aztec, offthe eastern lip of the curved crescent Prochaska had dubbed "BackboneRidge."
Crag calculated that the positions of Bandit, the drone and their ownrocket roughly formed an equilateral triangle on the floor of thecrater. The lower section of the rocket was crushed, its hull splitlengthwise.
Crag and Larkwell studied the scene from a small knoll. The drone lay ina comparatively level area about thirty feet from the edge of a deepfissure, careened at a steep angle from the vertical. Only its tailimbedded into the ground kept it from toppling.
"Might as well have a closer look," Larkwell said finally. Crag noddedand beckoned Richter, who was waiting at the bottom of the knoll. Sincethe sabotage incident he had split the crew into two sections whichvaried according to task. Richter was used by either section as needed.It wasn't an arrangement that Crag liked but he didn't feel it wise, orsafe, to allow anyone the privilege of privacy.
Richter circled the base of the knoll and met them. When they reachedthe rocket, Larkwell circled it several times, studying it from allangles.
"We might come out pretty well," he said finally. His voice carried adubious note. He lifted his head and contemplated the rocket again."Maybe some of the cargo rode through."
"We hope," Crag said.
"I wouldn't bank too much on it."
"Think we might get inside?"
Larkwell said decisively: "Not this boy. Not until we pull the nosedown. This baby's ready to topple."
They were discussing their next move when Prochaska came in on theinterphone: "Alpine wants the dope on Baker."
Damn Alpine, Crag thought moodily. He contemplated the rocket. "Tell 'emit's still here." All at once he felt depressed. Strain, he toldhimself. Since blast-off his life had been a succession of climaxes,each a little rougher than the one preceding. Not that he was alone inhis reactions. His mind switched to Nagel. The oxygen man had becomesullen, irritable, almost completely withdrawn from the group. He was,Crag thought, a lonely, miserable man. Even Larkwell was beginning toshow the affects of their struggle to survive. His normal easygoingmanner was broken by periods of surliness. Only Prochaska had managed tomaintain his calm approach to life, but the effects were tellingphysically. His face was a mask of parchment drawn tightly over bone,accentuating his tired hollow eyes.
But Richter seemed to be thriving. Why not? He was a doomed man given afresh reprieve on life, with no responsibilities to burden hisexistence. He was on a gravy train for the time being. Still, Richterwas in an unenviable spot. Nagel was openly hostile toward him. Hisdemeanor and looks were calculated to tell the German he was anundesirable intruder. Larkwell's attitude was one of avoidance. Hesimply acted as if the German were not on the moon. When in the courseof work it became necessary to give Richter an order, he did it with ashort surly bark. Prochaska concealed whatever feeling he had toward theGerman. No, he thought, Richter's lot wasn't easy.
He tried to push the mood aside. It wouldn't push. He checked hisoxygen, and decided to swing over to Bandit before returning. Thesooner they got started on the salvage job, the better. He communicatedhis plan to the others.
Larkwell protested, "Getting ready to open this baby's more important.We'll never get started on the airlock fooling around this god forsakendesert."
"Well get to that, too," Crag promised, fighting to keep his temperunder control. "By going from here we'll save a couple of miles overhaving to make a special trip."
"Suit yourself," the construction boss said truculently.
Crag nodded stiffly and started toward the enemy rocket, now lost toview behind intervening rock formations. By unspoken agreement Larkwellfell in at the rear, leaving Richter sandwiched between them. The Germanlived constantly under the scrutiny of one or another of the crew. Cragintended to keep it that way.
The trip was more difficult than he had anticipated. Twice they wereforced to detour around deep fissures. Before they had gone very farCrag's radiation counter came to life. He made a note of the spotthinking that later they would map the boundaries of the radioactivearea. Once or twice he checked his course with Prochaska. His oxygenmeter told him they would have to hurry when they topped a low knoll ofglazed rock and came upon the ship.
He stopped and turned, watching Richter. If he had expected any show ofemotion he was disappointed. His face was impassive. It gave Crag thefeeling that he wasn't really seeing the rocket--that he was looking farbeyond, into nothingness. His eyes behind the face plate were vacuouspools.
"We didn't have time to bury your companions," Crag saidmatter-of-factly. He indicated the rocket with a motion of his head andhis voice turned cruel:
"They're still in there."
Richter's expression remained unchanged. "It doesn't make muchdifference here," he said finally. He turned and faced Crag.
"One thing you should understand. They," he swept his arm toward Bandit,"were the military."
"And you?"
Richter said stiffly: "I am a scientist."
"Who destroyed our drone thinking it was us." They faced each otheracross the bleak lunar desert. The German's eyes had become bluefires--azure coals leaping into flame.
"It makes no difference what you think," he said after a moment. "Myconscience is clear."
"Nuts." Larkwell spat the word with disgust. Richter shrugged and turnedback toward the rocket. Crag looked at him with varying emotions. Onething was sure, he thought. Richter was a cool customer. He had seen newdepths in his blue eyes when they had faced each other. They were hardeyes, ablaze with ice ... the eyes of a fanatic--or a saint. He pushedthe thought aside.
Prochaska came in on the phones
to inquire about their oxygen. Cragchecked, chagrined to find that it was too low to spend more than a fewminutes at the rocket. He opened the arms locker, thinking he would haveto get rid of the weapons. They could be dangerous in the wrong hands.He had been unable to carry them back the first trip. Then he hadregarded them as something totally useless on the moon. Now he wasn't sosure.
He hurriedly studied the space cabin, seeking the information Gotch hadrequested. The floor and walls were heavily padded with some foammaterial--standard procedure to absorb vibration and attenuate noise.Aside from the controls, there were no projecting metal surfaces or hardcorners ... the view ports were larger ... acceleration pads smaller,thicker. All in all, the cabins of the two rockets were quite similar.He was examining the contents of the supply cabinets when Larkwellreminded him of their diminishing oxygen supply. They hurriedlyplundered Bandit of six oxygen cylinders and started back acrossArzachel's desolate plain.
* * * * *
Crag arbitrarily broke the lunar day into twenty-four hour periods tocorrespond with earth time. Twelve hours were considered as "day," theremaining time as "night." He set up regular communication periods inorder to schedule their activities. Under the arrangement Alpine came inpromptly at exactly a half-hour before breakfast--0500 by earthclock--and again following the evening meal. Prochaska monitored thechannel during the workday to cover possible urgent messages. Theschedule allowed a twelve-hour work period during the day and athree-hour work period following the evening meal, from 7:00 to 10:00.The communication periods quickly deteriorated into routine sessions--agood omen to Crag--but Gotch kept his finger in the pie. Crag had thesatisfaction of knowing he was available around the clock. Consequently,when the communicator came to life midway through the regulartwelve-hour work period, he knew something was brewing--something hewasn't going to like. So did Prochaska. His voice, when he called Cragto the communicator, spelled trouble.
Crag used the ear microphones for privacy and acknowledged the call witha distinct feeling of unease. As he had expected, the caller was Gotch.
"Drone Charlie was launched at 0600," he told Crag. "We'll feed you thedata on the regular channels." There was a brief silence. "This one'sgot to make it," he added significantly.
Crag said stonily: "We'll do our best."
"I know you will, Commander. I have absolutely no fear on that score.How's everything going?" The twangy voice across the abyss of space tookon a solicitous tone that set his nerves on edge. Something'swrong--something bad, he thought. The Colonel sounded like a doctorasking a dying patient how he felt.
"Okay, everything seems in hand. We've got the ship in good shape andLarkwell thinks we might fare pretty well with the drone. It might be inbetter shape than we first thought."
"Good, good, glad to hear it. We need a silver lining once in a while,eh?"
"Yeah, but I'm fairly certain you didn't call just to cheer me up," Cragsaid dryly. "What's on your mind?" The silence came again, a littlelonger this time.
