"Who the hell-"
"Later. There is no time."
Sure, Rick thought. Later. But the alien was right. The Cubans were approaching rapidly. He tried to organize his thoughts, but it was difficult to accept what he was doing, that he was talking with- things. The spokesman-man? No. Not a man. Not a spokesman, either, his mind gibbered. He had no concepts to use. Finally he found his voice. "What do you want with us?"
"For you to get your men aboard. Quickly, before you have none left." The alien spread its hands, palm down, in a gesture that meant nothing to Rick. The tone of his voice had not changed, but it was not difficult to guess that the alien was impatient. "As we have said before and doubtless must say many times again, if we wished you harm, you would be dead. What can we do to you that the Cubans will not accomplish within a few hours?" The alien was obviously right, but that didn't make Rick feel much better. The "rescue" was not very appealing. "How do you know my name?" he demanded.
"From your radio. You have no more time for questions." This came from one of the creatures in bright coveralls. "You must act. Now."
"What about our weapons?"
"Bring them. Bring all of your equipment," Grey-coveralls said. "But quickly. When the Cubans are close enough to see us clearly, we must be gone. With or without you and your men."
"That's no choice at all, Cap'n," Corporal Mason said. "Better them than the Cubans." The trooper's voice was flat and without emotion.
"I'd thought of that," Rick said. He stood another moment in indecision, but he had made up his mind. "All right."
"Quickly," the alien urged.
"Sure. Come on, Mason-"
"You will leave him here," Grey-coveralls said. "As an earnest of your good intentions."
"Now, wait just a damned minute-"
"It's okay, Captain," Mason said. "I'm as safe here as out there."
"All right." Rick went back to the doorway. It opened for him. When he reached the entry chamber, another door opened on the side opposite the entrance to the chamber where the aliens sat. He saw a large empty compartment, more than fifty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide.
"Have the men go in there with their weapons," a voice said. It seemed to speak from the walls, but there was no sign of a speaker grille.
Rick jumped out of the ship and ran to his command post. Half the troops-perhaps more-had gathered there to stare at the ship. They stood clutching rifles and grenades for what comfort weapons could give.
"I did not entirely expect to see you again," Lieutenant Parsons said. "Welcome back."
"Thanks. We've got no time at all. Get the men aboard. Men, weapons; food, equipment, everything. Fast."
"But-" Sergeant Elliot was stammering. Rick had never seen the big sergeant confused before.
"That's a CIA ship," Rick said. He spoke loudly so that many of the troops could hear him. "Secret stuff. They've come to get us out, but they don't want the Cubans to see the ship, so we've got to load up quickly. Now move it."
"Sir!" Elliot ran over to the mortar emplacement, and some of the other troops gathered their gear and headed for the ship. Rick didn't know if he had fooled them or not, but the "CIA ship" explanation seemed the easiest and fastest way to handle the situation.
Parsons looked at him with raised eyebrows. His expression said clearly that he knew Rick was a liar. Then he shrugged and began urging the men onto the ship. Sergeant Elliot rounded up more.
Good troops, Rick thought. And each one had probably made the same decision: they knew what the Cubans could do. This was at least a chance.
The mortar team ran by with their tube, followed by others with the base and packs of mortar bombs. Men grabbed boxes and bandoliers of ammunition, stuffed their pockets with grenades. They were going aboard well armed.
Not, Rick thought, that it will do a hell of a lot of good. Weapons won't make us safer. But they do make us feel safer, and that's important.
"What is this nonsense?" Parsons demanded in a low voice. "You know that is not-"
"Can it. Hold onto the questions." Rick held up his hand and gestured toward the south. There was sporadic firing down there, some of it much closer than Hendrix could possibly be. The Cubans were mopping up the last pockets of resistance before coming up the hill. "Hendrix has had it," Rick said. "His last orders were to get as many men out as we could. Got a better way?"
"No. But-"
"But nothing. That ship won't wait, and we can't do anything for Hendrix and his people." Fear and a sense of guilt at abandoning their wounded made Rick speak more sharply than he had intended. "Shut up and get the men aboard. There's no time for talk."
Andrй Parsons shrugged. "As you say. But there are questions you will answer."
"Don't I know it. Christ, Andrй, don't argue. Just do it. Please."
"Very well." He went out to assist in dismounting the light machine-gun.
More troopers ran past. They carried packs, sleeping bags, helmets, ammo boxes, mess gear; the usual impedimentia of a marching army. They were not making much noise, and there was surprisingly little confusion.
Good troops, Rick thought. We did damned well, considering how little support we had. Not our fault we were beaten. For a collection of soldiers who had never served together before, we did damned well.
"That's the last," Elliot shouted.
Rick had been counting. "Only thirty-four went aboard."
Elliot looked ashamed. "I can't find any more, Captain."
They've run, Rick thought. Well, I can understand that. I thought of it myself. "Get aboard, then," he ordered. After Elliot climbed in, Rick followed. They were the last.
As soon as Rick cleared the entryway, the outer door slid closed. When he went through into the compartment with the troops, that entryway closed also. They were blocked off from the outside and from the control room-or whatever that room was, Rick thought. Mason was still in there with the aliens.
There was a loud musical tone, and a voice said, "Everyone will please sit on the floor. Quickly."
"Get down!" Rick shouted. "Hit the deck!" He sat heavily, just in time. There was a feeling of far too much weight, and some of the troops who hadn't obeyed quickly enough fell heavily. Loose equipment fell and rolled around the compartment.
There were sideways accelerations. The feeling of motion went on for a long time. Then it stopped and they had normal weight again.
"Medic!" someone shouted. One of the troopers was holding his wrist, broken in a fall to the deck. Sergeant McCleve went to the downed man. McCleve was an older trooper, a career soldier rumored to have graduated from a Mexican medical school and unable to obtain a license to practice in the United States due to heavy drinking. Rick didn't know, but McCleve had always seemed very competent.
The troops were all talking at once. Some swore, and one or two prayed. Others got up and roamed around the compartment. There was nothing to see.
They were in a large rectangular metal room, and very little more could be said about it. Rick couldn't even tell where the light came from; it was just there, and although there were multiple shadows, they were very faint.
"I think we got away," Rick shouted. "Let the Cubans figure that one out!"
There was a cheer that sounded artificial. Rick smiled grimly. He didn't feel much like cheering himself.
"Level with us, sir," Corporal Gengrich said. "How'd the CIA get a thing like this? And why the hell did they need us if they've got-" he waved expressively-"these?"
It was a good question, and Rick had no idea of how to answer.
"All in good time," Lieutenant Parsons said. "All in good time. Count your blessings."
"But-" Gengrich began.
"Shut up." Sergeant Elliot was nervous and fell back on military tradition as something familiar and understood. An officer had spoken, and that was that.
It won't last, Rick thought. Elliot had strong views about officers: he assumed they were competent, wanted them to be, demanded that they be. He knew
that there were plenty of incompetents with bars and leaves, but he was proud enough of his Army that he'd kill himself trying to cover for them. But Rick suspected that Elliot would not hesitate to frag a bad officer for the honor of the corps.
There were more accelerations, this time not so violent. The ship was turning. Rick felt trapped, but he tried to keep his expression calm and unworried. He didn't know how successful he was at that, but he thought it was important that the troops think he was confident.
We are, he thought, thirty-six armed men and some heavy weapons, in a ship controlled by aliens-aliens! I don't have the faintest notion of where I am, where we're going, or what those creatures want with us.
He was certain they were in space. That decided one thing: they certainly didn't need any shooting. Not that there was anything to shoot at, but there were a lot of weapons available, and some might punch holes in the ship. The metal walls didn't seem too thick, and Rick had no idea of how strong they might be. Even supposing they could blow open a door and found air beyond it, and that they could go through the ship and kill or capture every alien in it-what then? They couldn't fly it; they couldn't land it; they couldn't even operate the food and water and air system.
And so far no one had threatened them.
Two hours later they were all certain they were in space. There was a brief warning tone, and a voice said, "There will be a period of no-weight. Please secure all equipment and secure yourselves."
The only thing they could secure themselves to was a low bar a bit above waist height that ran around two sides of the compartment like the rails ballet dancers use for exercise. Rick managed to get most of the troops over to those walls. They tied lines to as much of the gear as they could. They were just finishing when there was another musical tone.
They had no weight at all. Loose objects drifted slowly. Several men looked sick, and one was. The vomit floated around in large pools. Other men turned green.
"Jesus, we got to get out of here!" one soldier yelled.
"Shut up!" Elliot didn't look too good himself. "Captain-"
He didn't finish the question. The ship went through more gyrations, none very severe. Then, slowly, everything drifting in the air began to settle toward the deck. They felt increasing weight, building up to what seemed almost-but not quite- normal again.
This time it was much harder to calm the troops. They hung onto their weapons and stared around the compartment looking for someone to fight, something they could do. Rick thought he could literally smell the fear in the compartment, and it was contagious. He felt like a caged animal.
"For God's sake, where are we going?" Gengrich demanded.
"The journey will last two more hours," the voice said. It spoke from nowhere at all.
"So they can listen to us," Parsons said. He lowered his voice to an undertone. "Are you certain there is nothing else you wish to tell me?"
"Not just now."
Parsons shrugged. "As you will. But I hope this does not last much more than a few hours. It will be difficult to control the men if it goes on much longer." He made a wry face. "It will be difficult to control me."
"Yeah," Rick said. He knew exactly how Andrй Parsons felt.
The voice's time estimate was accurate. Rick's watch said they had been aboard for four hours and five minutes when the warning tones sounded again and they were told to secure themselves.
This time they never had a period of no-weight, but the accelerations were short and sharp, in little spurts. There were periods of varying gravity between spurts. Finally they felt a slight impact, no more than they might have felt jumping from a chair to the floor. The accelerations ceased.
They didn't weigh enough. Nowhere near enough, and this was steady. Rick looked around in surprise, a wild suspicion coming to his mind. Some of the troops were muttering. Corporal Gengrich thoughtfully took a cartridge from his pocket and dropped it, watched it fall slowly.
About one-sixth gravity, Rick thought. There was no hiding that, and no hiding what it meant.
Gengrich shouted it first. "God Almighty, we're on the friggin' Moon!"
3
The troopers had little time to-react to Gengrich. The compartment door opened, and Corporal Mason came in. His face looked like grey ashes, and he held his right arm against his chest. The compartment door remained open to the entry chamber, but all the other doors were closed.
"Mason-"
"Where the hell you been?"
"What's wrong, Art? What in hell did they do to you?"
The men were all shouting at once. Sergeant McCleve went over with his medical kit.
"At ease!" Rick shouted. Sergeant Elliot repeated the order more loudly. There were mutters, but the shouting stopped.
Rick joined Mason and McCleve. "What happened?"
"Jesus, Captain, we're on the Moon," Mason said. "The bastards brought us to the Moon!"
"Yes," Rick said.
"I saw it all," Mason said. The troops crowded around to listen.
Rick nodded to himself. It was time the men found out what had happened. He thought he should have told them before.
"Those screen things," Mason was saying. "It was like TV. We lifted off, straight up, it seemed like, and the world kept getting further and further away until I could see all of it, just like on TV during a space mission."
"What happened to your arm?" McCleve asked. He slit Mason's field-jacket sleeve and examined the wound. It looked like a neat round hole, thinner than a pencil, and it went through the jacket, the arm, and out the sleeve on the other side. There was no blood.
"They wouldn't talk to me," Mason said.
"Who?" "Who wouldn't talk?" the troops demanded. Elliot glared at them, but he didn't try to keep them quiet. He wanted to know too.
"Those critters," Mason said. "The — Captain, you saw 'em. I don't know what they are. Not men. Look something like men, but they're not."
Now there was a lot of excited babble. "Shut up," Rick said. "Let Mason tell his story."
"They wouldn't talk to me. We kept getting further and further away from the Earth, until I could see it-all of it-up to where I could see daylight and clouds over the ocean, just like on TV from Skylab. And they wouldn't talk. So I took out my pistol and pointed it at one-the one in the grey suit-and told him if he didn't tell me where we were going, I'd shoot him."
"Stupid," Lieutenant Parsons muttered.
"Yes, sir, it was stupid," Mason said. "The critter didn't do anything. Just waved his hand, kind of, and some kind of beam, like a laser beam, came out of the wall. Right out of the wall. I never saw any opening. Just this green light and it burned a hole right through. I dropped the gun and the critter came around and picked it up, and he said I should sit there and I should tell him if I needed medical attention-he talked that way, like a professor. Then he gave me a pill. I thought about it and then I took it, and after that it stopped hurting. And then we came on straight to the Moon. I saw us land. We're on the back side, Captain. The back side of the Moon. There's a big cave, and two other ships like this one."
When Mason stopped talking, the men began again. "You didn't tell us it was a goddamn flying saucer!" Gengrich shouted. His voice was hostile and accusing. "You said it was a CIA ship!"
"They were in a hurry," Rick said. "Would you rather be back on the hill waiting for the Cubans? Would any of you?"
They didn't know what to make of that. Nobody spoke of going back.
"We can always die," Rick said. "At least we can find out what these-people-want with us."
"Good advice." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "You will know very soon. The exit port will open and you will please carry all your equipment and weapons out of the ship. You will be told what to do after that. Please be careful. You are, as you have been told, on your planet's Moon. The air pressure will be lower than you are accustomed to, but there is more than enough air and oxygen for your species if you do nothing violent. Now please gather your equipment."
Rick felt totally drained of emotion. "Let's get with it," he said.
Elliot stood a moment in indecision, then evidently made up his mind. "Get that gear together. Move!" he shouted.
There was a cave beyond the door. Heavy material that looked like thick rubber sealed the door to the cave. The seal, which reminded Rick of the materials wet suits are made of, stretched for twenty meters or so into the cave. Beyond that the tunnel walls were made of rock, but shiny, as if it had been varnished. Rick felt it; the stuff was very hard, and he thought it had been sprayed on-probably to keep the air from leaking out through the rock walls.
When they had unloaded the ship, the entryway door closed, and they had no choice but to go down the tunnel. It went inward and down. They had no difficulty with equipment; everything weighed only a sixth of what it would on Earth, and one man could carry ten mortar bombs without great effort.
The tunnel was lighted, not with glowing walls as the ship had been, but with ordinary fluorescent lights. Rick examined one of the fixtures; it was stamped "Westinghouse." Common house wire ran from light to light.
As they went deeper into the cave, doors closed behind them. They seemed to be made from the same wet-suit material as the passage from the ship to the cave, and they appeared from the walls in circles that closed together so tightly that it was difficult to see they weren't solid.
They reached the bottom of the ramp. Rick estimated that they had come nearly a kilometer. At the ramp's end was a big cavern, as large as a basketball gymnasium, and furniture. Rick saw tables, chairs bookcases with books and magazines. Beds and army cots were clustered at one end of the area. A table held a coffee urn and bags of styrofoam cups, and a can of Yuban coffee stood next to the urn. On another table he saw loaves of bread of various American brands; jars of Jiffy peanut butter; cans of Campbell's soup. Paper plates and cheap plastic forks. Canned milk. Bricks of cheese; Vienna sausage; tins of sardines. There were no signs of fresh foods, meats or vegetables, but Rick was certain they wouldn't starve.
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