by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 18
Colonel Michael Gotch looked at the agent across the narrow expanse ofhis battered desk, then his eyes fell again to the dockets. Fourdockets, four small sheaves of paper, each the capsuled story of a man'slife. The names on the dockets were literally burned into his mind: AdamPhilip Crag, Martin LeRoy Larkwell, Gordon Wells Nagel, Max EdwardProchaska. Four names, four men, four separate egos who, by the magic ofman, had been transported to a bleak haven on another world. Four menwhose task was to survive an alien hell until the U.N. officiallyrecognized the United States' claim to sovereignty over the stark landsof the moon.
But one of the men was a saboteur, an agent whose task was to destroythe Western claim to ownership by destroying its occupancy of the moon.That would leave the East free to claim at least equal sovereignty onthe basis that it, too, had established occupancy in a lunar base.
The agent broke into his thoughts. "I'd almost stake my professionalreputation he's your man." He reached over and tapped one of the docketssignificantly.
"The word, the single word, that's what you used to tell me to watchfor. Well, the single word is there--the word that spells traitor. I'dgone over his record a dozen times before I stumbled on it." He ceasedspeaking and watched the Colonel.
"You may be right," Gotch said at last. "That's the kind of slip I'dpounce on myself." He hesitated.
"Go on," the agent said, as if reading his thoughts.
"There's one thing I didn't tell you because I didn't want to prejudiceyour thinking. The psychiatrists agree with you."
"The psychiatrists?" The agent's brow furrowed in a question.
"They've restudied the records exhaustively, ever since we first knewthere was a saboteur in the crew.
"They've weighed their egos, dissected their personalities, analyzedtheir capabilities, literally taken them apart and put them togetheragain. I got their report just this morning." Gotch looked speculativelyat the agent. "Your suspect is also their choice. Only there is notraitor."
"No traitor?" The agent started visibly. "I don't get you."
"No traitor," Gotch echoed. "This is a tougher nut than that. Thepersonality profile of one man shows a distinct break." He lookedexpectantly at the agent.
"A plant." The agent muttered, the words thoughtfully. "A ringer--a spywho has adopted the life role of another. That indicates carefulplanning, long preparation." He muttered the words aloud, talking tohimself.
"He would have had to cover every contingency--friends, relatives,acquaintances, skills, hobbies--then, at an exact time and place, ourman was whisked away and he merely stepped in." He shook his head.
"That's the kind of nut that's really tough to crack."
"Crack it," Gotch said.
The agent got to his feet "I'll dig him out," he promised savagely.
* * * * *
The drive to rehabilitate Red Dog became a frenzy in Crag's mind. Hedrove his crew mercilessly, beset by a terrible sense of urgency. Nordid he spare himself. They rigged lines in the dark of the moon androtated the rocket on its long axis until the break in the hull wasaccessible.
Crag viewed it with dismay. It was far longer than he had feared--asplintered jagged hole whose raw torn edges were bent into the belly ofthe ship. They finally solved the problem by using the hatch door ofDrone Charlie as a seal, lining it with sheets of foam from Bandit,whose interior temperature immediately plummeted to a point where it wasscarcely livable.
Prochaska bore the brunt of this new discomfort. Confined as he was tothe cabin and with little opportunity for physical activity, he nearlyfroze until he took to living in his space suit.
Crag began planning the provisioning of Red Dog even before he knew itcould be repaired. During each trip from Bandit he burdened the men withsupplies. Between times he managed to remove the spare oxygen cylinderscarried in Drone Charlie. There was still a scant supply in Drone Baker,but he decided to leave those until later.
The problems confronting him gnawed at his mind until each smalldifficulty assumed giant proportions. Each time he managed to fit thework into a proper mental perspective a new problem or disaster croppedup. He grew nervous and irritable. In his frantic haste to complete thework on Red Dog he found himself begrudging the crew the few hours theytook off each day for sleep. _Take it easy_, he finally told himself._Slow down_, Adam. Yet despite his almost hourly resolves to slow down,he found himself pushing at an ever faster pace. Complete Red Dog ...complete Red Dog ... became a refrain in his mind.
Larkwell grew sullen and surly, snapping at Richter at the slightestprovocation. Nagel became completely indifferent, and in the process,completely ineffectual. Crag had long realized that the oxygen man hadreached his physical limits. Now, he knew, Nagel had passed them. Maybehe was right ... maybe he wouldn't leave the moon.
When the break in Red Dog was repaired, Crag waited, tense and jittery,while Nagel entered the rocket and pressurized it. It'll work, he toldhimself. It's got to work. The short period Nagel remained in the rocketseemed to extend into hours before he opened the hatch.
"One or two small leaks," he reported wearily. He looked disconsolatelyat Crag. "Maybe we can locate them--with a little time."
"Good." Crag nodded, relieved. Another crisis past. He ordered Larkwellto start pulling the engines. If things went right....
The work didn't progress nearly as fast as he had hoped. For one thing,the engines weren't designed for removal. They were welded fast againstcross beams spread between the hull. Consequently, the metal sides ofthe ship were punctured numerous times before the job was completed.Each hole required another weld, another patch, and increased the dangerof later disaster.
Crag grew steadily moodier. Larkwell seemed to take a vicioussatisfaction out of each successive disaster. He had adopted anI-told-you-so attitude that grated Crag's nerves raw. Surprisinglyenough, Richter proved to be a steadying influence, at least to Crag. Heworked quietly, efficiently, seeming to anticipate problems and findsolutions before even Crag recognized them. Despite the fact that hefound himself depending on the German more and more, he was determinednever to relax his surveillance over the man. Richter was an enemy--aman to be watched.
Larkwell and Nagel were lackadaisically beginning work on the ship'sairlock when Prochaska came on the interphones with an emergency call.
"Gotch calling," he told Crag. "He's hot to get you on the line."
Crag hesitated. "Tell him to go to hell," he said finally. "I'll callhim on the regular hour."
"He said you'd say that," Prochaska informed him amiably, "but he wantsyou now."
Another emergency--another hair-raiser. _Gotch is a damn ulcer-maker_,Crag thought savagely. "Okay, I'm on my way," he said wearily. "Anythingto keep him off my back."
"Can I tell him that?"
"Tell him anything you want," Crag snapped. He debated taking the crewwith him but finally decided against it. They couldn't afford the time.Reluctantly he put the work party in Larkwell's charge and started backacross the bowl of the crater, each step a deliberate weighted effort.So much to do. So little time. He trudged through the night, cursing thefate that had made him Gotch's pawn.
Gotch was crisp and to the point. "Another rocket was launched from eastof the Caspian this morning," he told him.
"Jesus, we need a company of Marines."
"Not this time, Adam."
"Oh ..." Crag muttered the word.
"That's right ... a warhead," Gotch confirmed.
Crag kicked the information around in his mind for a moment. "What dothe computers say?"
"Too early to say for sure, but it looks like it's on the right track."
"Unless it's a direct hit it's no go. We got ten thousand foot wallsrimming this hell-hole."
The Colonel was silent for a moment. "It's not quite that pat," he saidfinally.
"Why not?"
"Because of the low gravity. Thousands of tons of rock will be lifted.Some will escape but the majority will fall b
ack like rain. They'llsmash down over a tremendously large area, Adam. At least that's whatthe scientists tell us."
"Okay, in four days we'll be underground," he said with exaggeratedcheerfulness, "as safe as bunnies in their burrows."
"Can you make it that fast?"
"We'll have to. That means well have to use Prochaska. That'll keep youoff the lines except for the regular broadcast hour," he said withsatisfaction.
Gotch snorted: "Go to hell."
"Been on the verge of it ever since we left earth."
"One other thing," Gotch said. "Baby's almost ready to try its wings."
The atomic spaceship! Crag suppressed his excitement with difficulty. Heheld down his voice.
"About time," he said laconically.
"Don't give me that blase crap," the Colonel said cheerfully. "I knowexactly how you feel." He informed him that the enemy was proclaiming tothe world they had established a colony on the moon, and had formallyrequested the United Nations to recognize their sovereignty over thelunar world. "How's that for a stack of hogwash?" he ended.
"Pretty good," Crag agreed. "What are we claiming?"
"The same thing. Only we happen to be telling the truth."
"How will the U.N. know that?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Adam. Just keep alive andlet us worry about the U.N."
"I'm not going to commit suicide if that's what you're thinking."
"You can--if you don't keep on your toes."
"Meaning...?"
"The saboteur...." His voice fell off for a moment. "I've been wantingto talk with you about that, Adam. We have a lead. I can't name the manyet because it's pretty thin evidence. Just keep on your toes."
"I am. I'm a grown boy, remember?"
"More than usual," Gotch persisted. "The enemy is making an all-outdrive to destroy Pickering Base. You can be sure the saboteur will dohis share. The stage is set, Adam."
"For what?"
"For murder."
"Not this lad."
"Don't be too cocky. Remember the Blue Door episode? You're the keyman ... and that makes you the key target. Without you the rest wouldbe a cinch."
"I'll be careful," Crag promised.
"Doubly careful," Gotch cautioned. "Don't be a sitting duck. I thinkmaybe we'll have a report for you before long," he added enigmatically.
"If the warhead doesn't get us," Crag reminded him. "And thanks for allthe good news." He laughed mirthlessly. They exchanged a few more wordsand cut off. He turned to Prochaska, weighing his gaunt face.
"You get your wish, Max. Climb into your spaceman duds and I'll take youfor a stroll. As of now you're a working man."
"Yippee," Prochaska clowned, "I've joined the international ranks ofworkers."
Crag's answering grin was bleak. "You'll be sorry," he said quietly.
