by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 21
Nagel was dead. He lay sprawled in the ash, a pitifully small limpbundle in a deflated suit. He had gotten his wish--he would never seeearth again. _Under the wide and starry sky_ ... Now he was asleep withhis dream. Asleep in the fantastically bizarre world he had come tolove. But the fact still remained: Nagel had been murdered. Murdered incold blood. Murdered by the killer of little Max Prochaska. And now thekiller was in command! Crag looked down at the crumpled body, relivingthe scene, feeling it burn in his brain.
Finally he rose, filled with a terrible cold anger.
"There's one thing he forgot...."
"What?" Richter asked.
"The cylinders in Drone Baker. We didn't move them."
He looked at his oxygen gauge. Low. Baker lay almost four miles to theeast on a trail seldom used. They had never traversed it by night.Baker, in fact, had become the forgotten drone. He probed his mind.There was a spur of intervening rock ... rills ... a twisty trailthreading between lofty pinnacles....
"Well have to hurry," Richter urged.
"Let's move...."
They started toward the east, walking silently, side by side, theirformer relationship forgotten. Crag accepted the fact that theirsurvival, the success of his mission--Gotch's well-laid plans--couldvery well depend upon what Richter did. Or didn't do. He had suddenlybecome an integral part in the complex machine labeled STEP ONE.
They reached the ridge which lay between them and the drone and startedupward, climbing slowly, silently, measuring distance against time inwhich time represented life-sustaining oxygen. The climb over the ridgeproved extremely hazardous. Despite their torches they more than oncebrushed sharp needles of rock and stumbled over low jagged extrusions.They were panting heavily before they reached the crest and started downthe opposite side. They reached the plain and Crag checked his oxygengauge. The reading alarmed him. He didn't say anything to Richter butspeeded his pace. The German's breath became a hoarse rumble in theearphones.
"Stop!" There was consternation in Richter's warning cry. Cragsimultaneously saw the chasm yawning almost at their feet.
Richter said quietly: "Which way?"
"Damned if I know." Crag flashed his torch into the rill. It was wideand deep, a cleft with almost vertical sides. They would have to goaround it. He flashed the light in both directions along the plain.There was no visible end to the fissure.
He studied the stars briefly and said, "East is to our right. We'll haveto work along the rill and gamble that it ends soon."
It did. They rounded its end and resumed their way toward the east. Craghad to stop several times to get his bearings. The shadows danced beforethe torch beams confusing him, causing odd illusions. He fell tonavigating by the stars. It occurred to him that Baker, measured againstthe expanse of the plain, would be but a speck of dust.
Richter's voice broke reflectively into his earphones, "Oxygen's aboutgone. Looks like this place is going to wind up a graveyard."
Crag said stubbornly: "We'll make it."
"It better be soon...."
"We should be about there."
They topped a small rise and dropped back to the plain. The needle ofDrone Baker punctuated the sky--blotted out the stars. Oxygen ...oxygen. The word was sweet music. He broke into a run, reached its baseand clawed at the ladder leading to its hold. He got inside pantingheavily, conscious of a slightly dizzy feeling, and grabbed the firstcylinder he saw. He hooked it into his suit system before looking downtoward the plain. Richter was not in sight. Filled with alarm he grabbedanother cylinder and hurried down the ladder. His torch picked upRichter's form near the base of the rocket. He hooked the cylinder intohis suit system and turned the valve, hoping he was in time, thenflashed his torch on the German's face. He seemed to be breathing. Cragcalled experimentally into the earphone, without answer. He finallysnapped off the torch to conserve the battery and waited, his mind ajumble of thoughts.
"Commander...?"
"Good. I was scared for a moment." He flashed the torch down. Richter'seyes were open; he was smiling faintly.
"Not a bad way to go," he managed to say. "Nice and easy."
"The only place you're going is Red Dog."
"I'll be okay in a minute."
"Sure you will."
Richter struggled to his feet breathing deeply. "I'm okay."
"We'd better get some more oxygen--enough to last through thefireworks," Crag suggested.
They returned to the drone and procured eight cylinders, lowering themwith a piece of line supplied for the purpose. They climbed down to theplain, packed the cylinders and started for Red Dog.
"Going to be close but we'll make it," Crag said, thinking of thewarhead.
Richter answered confidently: "We'll make it."
Strange, Crag thought, I wind up fighting with the enemy to keep one ofmy own crew from murdering me. Enemy? No, he could no longer brandRichter an enemy. He felt a pang of regret over the way he'd mistrustedhim. Still, there had been no other course. A thought jolted him. Hespoke casually, aware he might be stepping on Richter's toes: "There'sone thing I don't understand...."
"What?"
"Larkwell's an enemy agent...." He hesitated.
"And...?"
"Why didn't he attempt to solicit your aid?" Crag finished bluntly.
"You're a spaceman, Commander, not an intelligence agent."
"I don't get the connection."
"An agent trusts no one. And a saboteur is the lone wolf of the agents.Trust me? Ha! He'd just as soon trust your good Colonel Gotch. No,Larkwell wouldn't have trusted me. Never."
Crag was silent. An agent who couldn't trust a soldier of his owncountry, even when the chips were down? It was a philosophy he couldn'tunderstand. As for Larkwell! He vowed he'd live long enough to see himdead. More, he'd kill him himself. He was planning how he'd accomplishit when they reached the rill where Red Dog was buried. He switched historch on and ran it along the edge of the chasm until he located therope ladder leading down to the airlock.
"You lower 'em and I'll pack 'em." Crag ordered. He descended into therill and began moving the cylinders Richter lowered to him. Finished, heexamined the cylinders they had brought earlier. Empty! His lips set ina thin line as he examined the cylinders which the rocket had broughtfrom earth. Empty ... all empty. Larkwell had done a thorough job.
He gritted his teeth. Before he was through he'd ram the empty cylindersdown Larkwell's throat. Yeah, and that wasn't all. He contemplated thestep-by-step procedure. Larkwell would die. Die horribly. He lookedtoward the hatch wondering what was detaining Richter. He waited amoment, then climbed back to the plain. The German was nowhere in sight.
"Richter?" There was no answer. He checked his interphone to make sureit was working and called again. Silence. He swept his torch over theplain. No Richter. The German had vanished ... disappeared into theblack maw of the crater.
"Richter! Richter, answer me...!" Silence. Apprehension swept him. Hecalled again, desperately:
"Richter!"
"I'm all right, Commander." Richter's voice was low, seeming to havecome from a distance. "You'd better get back into Red Dog."
"Where are you?" Crag demanded.
"I have a job to do."
"Come back." The German didn't answer. Crag was about to start inpursuit when he realized he didn't have the faintest idea what directionRichter had taken. He hesitated, baffled and fearful by turn.
Periodically he called his name without receiving an answer. He fumed,wondering what the German had in mind. He couldn't get into Bandit and,besides, he was unarmed. He popped back into Red Dog and looked at thechrono. If Gotch's figures were right the warhead would strike in fourminutes. He climbed out of the rill.
"Warhead due in less than four minutes," he called into his mike.
"Get back into Red Dog, Commander," Richter insisted.
Crag snapped irritably: "What the hell are you trying to do."
"Commander, many people have crossed th
e frontier--from East to West.Many others have wanted to."
"I don't get you."
"I had to come all the way to Arzachel to find my frontier, Commander."
"Richter, come back," Crag ordered, his voice level.
"There's nothing you can do. You didn't know it but when I landed here Icrossed the frontier, Commander. I went from East to West, on the moon."
"Richter...?"
"Now I am free."
"I don't know what you're talking about, but you'd better get backhere--and pronto. You'll get massacred if you're on the plain when therocket hits." Inwardly he was shaken. "There's not a damn thing you cando about Larkwell."
"Ah, but there is. He forgot two things, Commander. The oxygen in Bakerwas only the first."
"And the second?"
Richter did not answer.
Crag called again. No answer. He waited, uncertain what to do next.
The ground twisted violently under his feet. The warhead! A series ofdiminishing quakes rolled the plain in sharp jolts. Missed Arzachel, hethought jubilantly. It missed ... missed. He twisted his head upward.The sky was black, black, a great black spread that reached to infinity,broken only by the brilliance of the stars. Off to one side Betelgeusewas a baleful red eye in the shoulder of Orion.
A picture of what was happening flashed through his mind. Somewherebetween Alphons and Arzachel thousands of tons of rock were hurtlingupward in great ballistic trajectories, parabolic courses which wouldbring them crashing back onto the lunar surface. Many would escape,would hurtle through space until infinity ended. Some would be caught inthe gravisphere of planets, would crash down into strange worlds. Butmost would smash back on the moon. Rocks ranging in size from grains ofdust to giants capable of smashing skyscrapers would fall like rain.
"Richter! Richter!" He repeated the call several times. No answer. Heswept his torch futilely over the plain. Richter was a dedicated man. Ifthe coming rain of death held any fears for him he failed to show it. Helooked up again, fancying that he saw movement against the stars.Somewhere up there mountains were hurtling through the void. Hehurriedly descended into the rill, hesitated, then moved into therocket. He again hesitated before leaving the airlock open. Richtermight return.
After a while he felt the first thud, a jolt that shook the rocket andtraveled through his body like a wave. The floor danced under his feet.He held his breath expectantly, suppressing an instant of panic. Therocket vibrated several times but none of the jolts was as severe as thefirst. He waited, aware of the stillness, a silence so deep it was likea great thunder. The big stuff must all be down. The thought bolsteredhis courage. The idea of being squashed like a bug was not appealing. Hewaited, wondering if Richter had survived. He thought of Larkwell andinvoluntarily clenched his fists. Larkwell, or Igor Malin--if helived--would be his first order of business. He remembered Nagel andProchaska and began planning how he would kill the man in Bandit. Hewaited a while longer. The absolute silence grated his ears. Now, hethought.
He slipped on a fresh oxygen cylinder, and hooked a spare into his belt,then pawed through the supplies until he found fresh batteries for historch. Finally he got one of the automatic rifles from Red Dog'sarsenal. After that he climbed up to the plain. He called Richter's nameseveral times over the phones, with little hope of answer. He looked atthe sky, then swept his torch over the moonscape. A feeling of solitudeassailed him. For the first time since leaving earth he was totallyalone.
The last time he had experienced such a feeling was when he'd pushed anexperimental rocket ship almost to the edge of space. He shook off thefeeling and debated what to do. Richter undoubtedly was dead. HadLarkwell--or was it Malin?--survived the rock storm? Spurred to action,he turned toward Bandit. Nothing seemed changed, he thought, or almostnothing. Here and there the smooth ash was pitted. Once he came to ajagged rock which lay almost astride his path. He was sure it hadn'tbeen there before.
He moved more cautiously as he drew near Bandit, remembering that theoccupant of the rocket was armed. He climbed a familiar knoll, searchingthe plain ahead with his torch. He stopped, puzzled, flashing the lightto check his bearings. Satisfied he was on the right knoll he played thelight ahead again while moving down to the plain. He walked slowlyforward. Once he dropped to the ground to see if he could discern thebulk of Bandit against the stars. Finally he walked faster, sweeping thetorch over the plain in wide arcs. Suddenly he stopped. Gone! Bandit wasgone! It couldn't be. It might be demolished, smashed flat, but itcouldn't disappear. He wondered if he were having hallucinations. No, hewas sane ... completely sane. He began calling Richter's name. Thesilence mocked him. Finally he turned back toward Red Dog.
Crag slept. He slept with the airlock closed and the cabin flooded withoxygen. He slept the sleep of the dead, a luxurious sleep withoutthought or dream. When he awakened, he ate and donned the pressure suit,thinking he would have to get more oxygen from the drone. He opened thehatch and scrambled out. The plain was light. The sun was an intolerablecircle hanging at the very edge of the horizon. He blinked his eyes toget them used to the glare.
He studied the plain for a long time, then hefted the rifle and startedtoward Bandit before he remembered there was no Bandit. No Bandit? Whenhe reached the top of the knoll, he knew he was right. Banditunaccountably was gone. He searched the area in wide circles. Thequestion grew in his mind. He found several twisted pieces of metal--ajagged piece of engine. Abruptly he found Richter.
He was dead. His suit hung limp, airless against his body. He stared atthe object next to Richter. It was a moment before he recognized it asthe rocket launcher.
"_He forgot two things, Commander...._"
Now he understood Richter's words. Now he knew the motive that haddriven him onto the plain in the face of the rock storm. Richter hadused the launcher to destroy Bandit, to destroy the murderer ofProchaska and Nagel. He marveled that Richter could have carried theheavy weapon. Once, before, he had watched two men struggle under itsweight Richter must have mustered every ounce of his strength.
He looked at the fallen form for a long time. Richter had crossed hisfrontier. At last he turned and started toward Red Dog. Adam Crag, theMan in the Moon. Now he was really the Man in the Moon. The only Man.Colonel Crag, Commanding Officer, Pickering Field. General Crag of theFirst Moon expeditionary Force. Adam Crag, Emperor of Luna. Helaughed--a mirthless laugh. Damned if he couldn't be anything he wantedto be--on the Moon.
* * * * *
The sun climbed above the rim of Arzachel transforming the vastdepressed interior of the crater into a caldron of heat and glare. Inthe morning of the lunar day the rock structures rising from the plaincast lengthy black shadows over the ashy floor--a mosaic in black andwhite. Crag kept busy. He stripped the drones of their scant amount ofusable supplies--mainly oxygen cylinders from Baker--and set up a newcommunication post in Red Dog. In the first hours of the new morningGotch named the saboteur. Crag listened, wearily. Just then he wasn'tinterested in the fact that an alert intelligence agent had doubted thata man of 5' 5" could have been a star basketball player, as theSuperintendent of the Maple Hill Orphanage had said. He expressed hisfeelings by shutting off the communicator in the middle of the Colonel'sexplanation.
The sun climbed, slowly, until it hung overhead, ending a morning whichhad lasted seven earth days in length. At midday the shadows had all butvanished. He finished marking the last of three crosses and stepped backto survey his work. He read the names at the head of the mounds: MaxProchaska, Gordon Nagel, Otto Richter. Each was followed by a date. Outon the plain were other graves, those of the crewmen of Bandit and RedDog. He had marked each mound with a small pile of stones. Later itstruck him that someday there might be peace. Someday, someone mightwant to look at one of those piles of stone. He returned and added anotation to each.
* * * * *
The sun moved imperceptibly across the sky. It seemed to hover above thehorizon for a long while before slippi
ng beyond the rim. Night seemedeternal. Crag worked and slept and waited. He measured his oxygen,rationed his food, and planned. He was tough. He'd survive. If only toread Gotch off, he promised himself savagely.
The sun came up again. In time it set. Rose and set.
Crag waited.
* * * * *
He watched the silvery ship let down. It backed down slowly, gracefully,coming to rest on the ashy plain with scarcely a jar. Somehow he didn'tfeel jubilant. He waited, gravely, watching the figures that came fromthe ship. He wasn't surprised that the first one was Colonel MichaelGotch.
* * * * *
Later they gathered in the small crew room of the Astronaut, the name ofthe first atom-powered spaceship. They waited solemnly--Gotch and Crag,the pilot, and two crewmen--waiting for the thin man to speak. Just nowhe was sitting at the small pulldown chow table peering at some papers,records of the moon expedition. Finally he looked up.
"It seems to me that your Nation's claim to the Moon is justified," hesaid. The words were fateful. The thin man's name was Fredrick Gunter.He was also Secretary-General of the United Nations.
* * * * *
Jeff Sutton, although experienced in journalistic and technical writings, has only recently turned his hand to novels with the result that _First on the Moon_ is also his first novel. A native Californian, and a Marine veteran, he is presently employed as a research engineer for Convair-San Diego, specializing appropriately enough for this novel in problems of high altitude survival. He says of himself:
"I have long been a science-fiction reader (a common ailment among scientists and engineers). On the personal side, a number of factors have coalesced to pin me to the typewriter. I am living in--and working in--a world of missiles, rockets, and far-reaching dreams. In many areas the border between science-fiction and science suddenly has become a lace curtain. It is a world I have some acquaintance with--and fits very nicely into my desire to write."
* * * * *
SCIENCE-FICTION AT ITS BEST
Luna Was The Goal, Earth The Prize
It was a top secret, and yet the enemy knew. They knew that the Americans were about to send a manned rocket to the moon and thereby claim it for Old Glory. They knew also that whoever held the moon would command the Earth ... and they were determined to stop us at all costs!
When assassination and sabotage failed to stop the take-off, they'd have to use even more drastic measures. There might be an H-bomb loaded rocket missile, there could be a Red spaceship with a suicide crew, and there was always the possibility of their placing a spy aboard the U.S. rocket.
FIRST ON THE MOON is a thrilling adventure of the very near future. Written with up-to-the-minute accuracy by a professional aviation research engineer, it is a top-notch novel that is science-fiction only by the thinnest margin!
AN ACE BOOK
