by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 16
Crag studied the scene. He lay at one end of the great crescent of rockforming Backbone Ridge, the other end of which ended about half a milefrom Red Dog. The floor of the crater between the rocket and the nearestrock formations was fairly level and unbroken. The arced formationitself was a veritable jungle of rocks of every type--gnarled, twistedrock that hugged the ground, jutting black pinnacles piercing the sky,bizarre bubble formations which appeared like weird ebony eskimo cities,and great fantastic ledges which extruded from the earth at varyingangles, forming black caves against their bases.
Whole armies could hide there, he thought. Only the fugitive couldn'thide. Oxygen was still the paramount issue. He'd have to thread his waythrough the terrible rock jungle to the distant tip of the crescent,then plunge across the open plain to the rocket if he hoped to survive.The distance between the horns of the crescent appeared about threemiles. He pondered it thoughtfully, then got on the interphones andoutlined his plan to Prochaska.
"Okay, I know better than to argue," the Chief said dolefully when hehad finished. "But watch your oxygen." Damn the oxygen, Crag thoughtirritably. He studied the labyrinth of rock into which his quarry hadvanished, then rose and started across the plain in a direct line forthe opposite tip of the crescent.
The first moments were the hardest. After that he knew he must be almostout of range of the sniper's weapon. Perhaps, even, the other had notseen his maneuver. He forced himself into a slow trot, his breathwhistling in his ears and his body sodden inside his suit. Perspirationstung his eyes, his leg muscles ached almost intolerably, and everymovement seemed made on sheer will power. The whimsical thought crossedhis mind that Gotch had never painted this side of the picture. Nor wasit mentioned in the manual of space survival.
He was thankful that the plain between the two tips of the crescent wasfairly even. He moved quickly, but it was a long time before he reachedthe further tip of the crescent. He wondered if he had been observedfrom Red Dog. Well, no matter, he thought. He had cut the sniper's soleavenue of escape. Victory over his quarry was just a matter of time, amatter of waiting for him to appear. He picked a vantage point, a highrocky ledge which commanded all approaches to his position. Afterbriefing Prochaska, he settled back to wait, thinking that the fugitivemust be extremely low on oxygen.
Long minutes passed. Once or twice he thought he saw movement among therocks and started to lift his rifle; but there was no movement.Illusions, he told himself. His eyes were playing him tricks. Thebizarre sea of rocks confronting him was a study in black and white--theintolerable light of sun-struck surfaces contrasting with the stygianblackness of the shadows. His eyes began to ache and he shifted themfrom time to time to shut out the glare. He was sweating again and therewas a dull ache at the back of his head. Precious time was fleeing. He'dhave to resolve the chase--soon.
All at once he saw movement that was not an illusion. He half rose,raising his rifle when dust spurted from the ground a few feet to hisleft. He cursed and threw himself to the ground, rolling until he waswell below the ridge. One thing was certain: the sniper had the ridgewell under control. The Red Dog watcher must have warned him, hethought. He looked around. Off to one side a small rill cut through therocks running in the sniper's general direction. He looked back towardthe ridge, hesitated, then decided to gamble on the rill. He movedcrablike along the side of the slope until he reached its edge andpeered over. The bottom was a pool of darkness. He lowered himself overthe edge with some misgivings, searching for holds with his hands andfeet. His boot unexpectedly touched bottom.
Crag stood for a moment on the floor of the rill. His body was clothedin black velvet shadows but it was shallow enough to leave his head inthe sunlight. He moved cautiously forward, half expecting the sniper toappear in front of him. His nerves were taut, edgy.
_Relax, boy, you're strung like a violin_, he told himself. _Take iteasy._
A bend in the rill cut off the sun leaving him in a well of blackness.He hadn't counted on that. Before he'd moved another dozen steps herealized the rill wasn't the answer. He'd have to chance getting backinto the open. More time was lost. He felt the steep sides until helocated a series of breaks in the wall, then slung his rifle over hisshoulder and inched upward until his head cleared the edge. The sun'ssudden glare blinded him. Involuntarily he jerked his head sideways,almost losing his hold in the process. He clung to the wall for a momentbefore laboriously pulling his body over the edge.
He lay prone against the rocks, half-expecting to be greeted by a hailof bullets. He waited quietly, without moving, then carefully raised hishead. Off to one side was a series of mounds. He crawled toward themwithout moving his belly from the ground. When he reached the first one,he half rose and scuttled forward until he found a view of the twistedrocks where he had last seen the sniper.
The scene ahead was a still-life painting. It seemed incongruous thatsomewhere among the quiet rocks death moved in the form of a man. Hedecided against penetrating further into the tangle of rocks. He'd wait.He settled back, conscious that time was fleeing.
"Skipper, are you checking your oxygen?" The Chief's voice rattledagainst his eardrums. It was filled with alarm.
"Listen, I have no time--" Crag started to growl. His words were clippedshort as his eyes involuntarily took the reading of his oxygen gauge.Low ... low. He calculated quickly. He was well past the point of noreturn--too low to make the long trip back to Bandit. He was done, gone,a plucked gosling. He had bought himself a coffin and he'd rest therefor all eternity--boxed in by the weird tombstones of Crater Arzachel.Adam Crag--the Man in the Moon.
He grinned wryly. Well, at least his quarry was going with him. Hewouldn't greet his Maker empty handed. He tersely informed Prochaska ofhis predicament, then recklessly moved to a high vantage point andscanned the rocks beyond.
He had to make every second count. Light and shadow ... light andshadow. Somewhere in the crisscross of light and shadow was a man-form,a blob of protoplasm like himself, a living thing that had to be stampedout before the last of his precious oxygen was gone. He was theexecutioner. Somewhere ahead a doomed man waited in the docks ... waitedfor him to come. They were two men from opposite sides of the world,battling to death in Hell's own backyard. Only he'd win ... win beforehe died.
He was scanning the rocky tableau when the sniper moved into his fieldof vision, far to one side of Crag's position. He was running with shortchoppy steps, threading between the rocks toward Red Dog. His haste andapparent disregard of exposing himself puzzled Crag for a moment, thenhe smiled grimly. Almost out of oxygen, he thought. Well, that makes twoof us. But he still had to make sure his quarry died. The thoughtspurred him to action.
He turned and scrambled back toward the tip of Backbone Ridge to cut thesniper's escape route. He reached the end rocks and waited. A fewmoments later he sighted a figure scrambling toward him. He raised hisrifle thinking it was too far for a shot, then lowered it again. Thesniper began moving more slowly and cautiously, then became lost tosight in a maze of rock outcroppings.
Crag waited impatiently, aware that precious moments were fleeing. Hewas afraid to look at his gauge, plagued by the sense of vanishingmoments. Time was running out and eternity was drawing near--near toAdam Crag as well as the sniper. The rocks extended before him, akaleidoscopic pattern of black and white. Somewhere in the tortuouslabyrinth was the man he had to kill before he himself died. He watchednervously, trying to suppress the tension pulling at his muscles. Anerve in his cheek twitched and he shook his head without removing hiseyes from the rocks ahead. Still there was no sign of the other.
Who was the stalker and who was the stalked? The question bothered him.Perhaps even at that instant the sniper was drawing bead. Then he'd befree to reach Red Dog--safety.
Crag decided he couldn't wait. He'd have to seek the other out, somehowflush him from cover. He looked around. Off to one side a shelf of blackrock angled incongruously into the sky. Its sides were steep but its topwould comman
d all approaches to the tip of the crescent. He made his wayto the base of the shelf and began scrambling up its steep sides,finding it difficult to manage toe and hand holds. He slipped from timeto time, hanging desperately on to keep himself from rolling back to therocks below. Just below the top he rested, panting, fighting for breath,conscious of his heart thudding in his ears. He had to hurry!
Slowly, laboriously he pulled himself up the last few feet and laypanting atop the shelf, none too soon. The sniper scrambled out of therocks a scant hundred yards from Crag's position. He raised his rifle,then hesitated. The Red Dog crewman had fallen to his hands and kneesand was fighting to rise. He pushed his hands against the plain in anattempt to get his feet under him. Crag lowered his rifle and watchedcuriously.
The sniper finally succeeded in getting to his feet. He stood for amoment, weaving, before moving toward Crag's shelf with a falteringzigzag gait. Crag raised the rifle and tried to line the sights. He haddifficulty holding the weapon steady. He started to pull the triggerwhen the man fell again. Crag hesitated. The sniper floundered in theash, managed to pull himself half-erect. He weaved with a few falteringsteps and plunged forward on his face.
Crag watched for a moment. There was no movement. The black blob of thesuit lay with the stillness of the rocks in the brazen heat of thecrater. So that's the way a man dies when his oxygen runs out, hethought. He just plops down, jerks a little and departs, with as littleceremony as that. He grinned crookedly, thinking he had just watched arehearsal of his own demise. He watched for a moment longer beforeturning his face back toward the plain.
Red Dog was a bare half-mile away--a clear level half-mile from the tipof Backbone Ridge. That's how close the sniper had come to living. Hemulled the thought with a momentary surge of hope. Red Dog? Why not? Ifhe could shoot his way into the space cabin he'd live ... live. Thethought galvanized him to action.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the slopeheedless of the danger of ripping his suit. He could make it. He had tomake it! He gained the bottom and paused to catch his breath beforestarting toward the rocket. A glance at his oxygen meter told him thatthe race was futile. Still, he forced his legs into a run, threadingthrough the rocks toward the floor of the crater. He reached the tip ofthe crescent panting heavily and plunged across the level floor of theplain. His legs were leaden, his lungs burned and sweat filled his eyes,stinging and blurring his vision. Still he ran.
The rocket rose from the crater floor, growing larger, larger. He triedto keep in a straight path, aware that he was moving in a crazy zigzagcourse.
The rocket loomed bigger ... bigger. It appeared immense. Caution, hetold himself, there's an hombre up there with a rifle. He halted,feeling his body weave, and tried to steady himself. High up in the noseof Red Dog the hatch was a dancing black shadow--black with movement.He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and moved the control to fullautomatic, falling to his knees as he did so. Strange, the ashy floor ofthe crater was erupting in small fountains just to his side. Danger, hethought, take cover. The warning bells were still ringing in his brainas he slid forward on his stomach and tried to steady his weapon. Dustspurted across his face plate. The black rectangle of the hatch dancedcrazily in his sights. He pulled back on the trigger, feeling the heavyweapon buck against his shoulder, firing until the clip was empty. Hisfingers hurriedly searched his belt for the spare clips. Gone. Somehowhe'd lost them. He'd have to rush the rocket.
He got to his feet, weaving dizzily, and forced his legs to move. Onceor twice he fell, regaining his feet with difficulty.
He heard a voice. It took him a minute to realize it was his own. He wasbabbling to Prochaska, trying to tell him ...
The sky was black. No, it was white, dazzling white, white with heat,red with flame. He saw Red Dog with difficulty. The rocket was a hotel,complete with room clerk. He laughed inanely. A Single, please. No, I'llonly be staying for the night. He fell again. This time it took himlonger to regain his feet. He stumbled ... walked ... stumbled. His eyessought the rocket. It was weaving, swaying back and forth. Foolish, hethought, there was no wind in Crater Arzachel. No air, no wind, nonothing. Nothing but death. Wait, there was someone sitting on top ofthe rocket--a giant of a man with a long white beard. He watched Cragand smiled. He reached out a hand and beckoned. Crag ran. The skyexploded within his brain, his legs buckled and he felt his face platesmash against the ashy floor. For all eternity, he thought. Theblackness came.
* * * * *
Adam Crag opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Above him the domeof the sky formed a great black canopy sprinkled with brilliant stars.His thoughts, chaotic memories, gradually stabilized and he rememberedhis mad flight toward Red Dog.
This couldn't be death, he thought. Spirits didn't wear space suits. Hesensed movement and twisted his head to one side. Gordon Nagel! Theoxygen man's face behind the heavy plate was thin, gaunt, but he wassmiling. Crag thought that he had never seen such a wonderful smile.Nagel's lips crinkled into speech:
"I was beginning to wonder when you'd make it." Even his voice wasdifferent, Crag thought. The nasal twang was gone. It was soft, mellow,deep with concern. He thought it was the most wonderful sound he hadever heard.
"Thanks, Gordon," he said simply. He spoke the words thinking it was thefirst time he'd ever addressed the other by his first name.
"How'd you ever locate me?"
"Started early," Nagel said. "I was pretty sure you'd push yourself pastthe point of no return. You seemed pretty set on getting that critter."
"It's a wonder you located me." He managed to push himself to a sittingposition.
"Prochaska didn't think I could. But I did. Matter of fact, I was prettyclose to you when you broke from the rocks heading for Red Dog." RedDog! Crag twisted his head and looked toward the rocket.
"He's lying at the base of the rocket," Nagel said, in answer to hisunspoken question. "Your last volley sprayed him."
"Skipper!" Prochaska's voice broke impatiently into his earphones.
"Still alive," Crag answered.
"Yeah--just." Prochaska's voice was peevish. "You were lucky with thatlast burst of fire."
"Thanks to my good marksmanship," Crag quipped weakly.
"I wish you'd quit acting like a company of Marines and get back here."
"Okay, Colonel."
Prochaska cursed and Crag grinned happily. It was good to be alive, evenin Crater Arzachel.
Nagel helped him to his feet and Crag stood for a moment, feeling thestrength surge back into his body. He breathed deeply, luxuriating inthe plentiful oxygen. Fresh oxygen. Fresh as a maiden's kiss, he thoughtOxygen was gold. More than gold. It was life.
"Ready, now?"
"Ready as I ever will be," Crag answered. "Lead on, Gordon."
They had almost reached Bandit when Crag broke the silence. "Why did youcome ... to the moon, Gordon?"
Nagel slowed his steps, then stopped and turned.
"Why did you come, Commander?"
"Because ... because ..." Crag floundered. "Because someone had tocome," he blurted. "Because I was supposed to be good in my field." Hiseyes met Nagel's. The oxygen man was smiling, faintly.
"I'm good in mine, too," he said. He chewed at his bottom lip for amoment.
"I could give the same reasons as you," he said finally. "Truthfully,though, there's more to it." He looked at Crag defiantly.
"I was a misfit on earth, Commander. A square peg in a round hole. I haddreams ... dreams, but they were not the dreams of earth. They weredreams of places in which there were no people." He gave an oddhalf-smile. "Of course I didn't tell the psych doctors that."
"There's plenty I didn't tell 'em, myself," Crag said.
"Commander, you might not understand this but ... I like the moon." Helooked away, staring into the bleakness of Arzachel. Crag's eyesfollowed his. The plain beyond was an ash-filled bowl broken by weirdledges, spires, grotesque rocks. In the distance Backbone Ridge crawleda
long the floor of the basin, forming its fantastic labyrinths. Yet ...yet there was something fascinating, almost beautiful about the crater.It was the kind of a place a man might cross the gulfs of space to see.Nagel had crossed those gulfs. Yes, he could understand.
"I'll never return to earth," he said, almost dreamily.
"Nonsense."
"Not nonsense, Commander. But I'm not unhappy at the prospect. Do youremember the lines:
_Under the wide and starry sky Oh, dig the grave and let me lie ..._
Well, that's the way I feel about the moon."
"You'll be happy enough to get back to earth," Crag predicted.
"I won't get back, Commander. Don't want to get back." He turnedbroodingly toward Bandit.
"Maybe we'd better move on," Crag said gently. "I crave to get out ofthis suit."
