Jeff Sutton

by First on the Moon

  / Crag answered softly. "Shoot"

  "More bad news," Gotch reported somberly. "Burning Sands picked a package out of Drone Able just before launch time. It's just been identified."

  "Check," he replied, trying to assimilate what Gotch was telling him.

  Gotch stated flatly. "It was a time bomb. Here's a description. Bomb was packaged in a flat black plastic case about one by four inches. Probably not big enough to wreck the drone but big enough to destroy the controls. It was found tucked in the wiring of the main jtaneL Got that?"

  "Check."

  "The bomb squad hasn't come through with full details yet. If you find a mate, don't try to disarm it Dump it, pronto!"

  "Can't. It'll stay with us."

  "It's size indicates it wouldn't be fatal if it exploded outside the hull," Gotch rasped. "It was designed to wreck controls. If you find one, dump it That's an order." The

  earphones were silent. Crag was swiveling toward Prochaska when they came to life again.

  "One other thing.'' Gotch was silent for a moment. Crag pictured him carefully framing his words. "It means that the situation is worse than we thought," he said finally.

  "They haven't left anything to chance. If you have a bomb, it was carried there after the final security check. Do you follow me?"

  "Yeah," Crag answered thoughtfully. He sat for a moment, debating what to do. Prochaska didn't ask any questions. Gotch was telling him that the Aztec might be mined. Wait, what else had he said? The bomb was carried there after the security check. That spelled traitor. The Aztec had been shaken down too often and too thoroughly for Intelligence to have muffed. It would have to have been planted at the last moment If there was a bomb. He'd better keep quiet until Gotch's suspicions were proven false—or verified.

  He turned toward Prochaska, keeping his voice low. "Search the console panels—every inch of them."

  He looked around. Nagel and Larkwell were back in their seats. Nagel seemed asleep, but Larkwells face was speculative. Crag's eyes swept the cabin. Spare oxygen tanks, packaged pressure suits, water vents, chemical commode, the algae chamber and spare chemicals to absorb carbon dioxide in case the algae system failed—these and more items filled every wall, cupboard, occupied every cubic inch of space beyond the bare room needed for human movement. Where was the most sensitive spot? The controls. He sighed and turned back to the panels.

  Prochaska was methodically running his hands through the complex of wiring under the instrument panels. His face was a question, the face of a man who didn't know what he was looking for. He decided not to tell him ' yet. His earphones gave a burst of static followed by the Colonel's hurried voice.

  "Burning Sands reports packaged timed for 0815," he snapped. "That's eight minutes away. Get on the ball. If you've got one there, it's probably a twin."

  "Okay," Crag acknowledged. "Adios, we've got work to do." He swung toward Nagel.

  "Break out the pressure suits," he barked. "Lend him a hand, Larkwell."

  Nagel's eyes opened. "Pressure suits?"

  "Check. We may need them in a couple of minutes."

  "But-"

  "Get to it," Crag rasped. "It may be a matter of life or death." He turned. Prochaska was still examining the wiring. No time to search the rest of the cabin, he thought. It might be anywhere. It would have to be the panels or nothing. Besides, that was the most logical place. He went to the Chiefs assistance, searching the panels on his side of the board, pushing his fingers gentiy between the maze of wiring. Nothing below the analog, the engine instruments, the radar altimeter. He glanced at the chronometer and began to sweat. The hands on the dial seemed to be racing. Prochaska finished his side of the console and looked sideways at him. Better tell him, Crag thought

  He said calmly. "Time bomb. Burning Sands says, if we have one, it may blow in—" he glanced hurriedly at the chronometer—"five minutes."

  Prochaska looked hurriedly at the array ef gear lining the bulkheads.

  "Probably in the controls, if we have one." Crag finished the panels on his side without any luck. Prochaska hastily started re-examining the wiring. Crag followed after him. A moment later his fingers found it, a smooth flat case deeply imbedded between the wiring. Prochaska had gone over that panel a moment before! The thought struck him even as he moved it out, handling it gingerly. Prochaska showed his surprise. Crag glanced at Nagel and LarkwelL They had the suits free. He laid the bomb on the console. Larkwell saw it. His face showed understanding. He heaved one of the suits to Prochaska and a second one to Crag. They hurriedly donned them. Space limitations made it an awkward task. Crag kept his eyes on the chronometer. The hand seemed to whiz across the dial. He began to sweat, conscious that he was breathing heavily.

  "Short exposure," he rapped out. "Minimum pressure." He slipped on his helmet, secured it to the neck ring and snapped on the face plate. He turned the oxygen valve and felt the pressure build up within the suit and helmet. The chronometer showed two minutes to go. He snapped a glance around. Nagel peered at him through his thick face plate with a worried expression. Larkwell's hps were compressed against his teeth. His jaws worked spasmodically. Both were waiting, tense, watching him.

  Prochaska was the last to finish. Crag waited impatiendy for him to switch on his oxygen valve before picking up the bomb. He motioned the others to stand back and began opening the dogs which secured the escape hatch. He hesitated on the last one. The escaping air could whisk him into space in a flash. The same thing had happened to crewmen riding in bubbles that broke at high altitude. Whoosh! He'd be gone! Conceivably, it could suck the cabin clean. Fortunately their gear had been secured as protection against the high g forces of escape. Too late to lash himself with the seat harnessing. Time was running out Panic touched his mind. Calm down, Crag, he told himself. Play it cool, boy.

  Prochaska saw his dilemma at the same instant. He squatted on the deck and thrust his legs straight out from the hips, straddling one of the seat supports. Larkwell and Nagel hurriedly followed suit Crag cast a backward glance at the chronometer—a minute and ten seconds to go! He threw himself to one side of the hatch, squatted and hooked an arm into a panel console, hoping it was strong enough.

  He laid the bomb on the deck next to the hatch and reached up with his free hand, held his breath, hesitated, and jarred the last dog loose.

  The hatch exploded open. A giant claw seemed to grab his body, pulling him toward thé opening. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving him weak, breathless. The bomb had been whisked into space. He got to his feet and grasped the hatch combing, looking out. It was a giddy, vertiginous moment. Before him yawned a great purple-black maw, a blacker purple than that seen through the view ports. It was studded with unbelievably brilliant stars, a gleam with the hard luster of diamonds—white diamonds and blue sapphires.

  Something bright blinked in space.

  He hesitated. The cold was already coming through his suit. He remembered he hadn't turned on either the heating element or interphone system. He drew the hatch shut and dogged it down, then switched both on. The others saw his movements and followed suit.

  "See anything?" Prochaska was the first to ask. His voice sounded tinny and far away. Crag adjusted his amplifier and said grimly:

  "It blew."

  "How . . how did it get here?" He identified the voice as Nagel's.

  He snapped brusquely, "That's what I'm going to find out." Larkwell was silent Nagel began fiddling with the oxygen valves. They waited, quietly, each absorbed in his thoughts until Nagel indicated it was safe to remove their suits. Crag's thoughts raced while he shucked the heavy garments. It's past, he thought, but the saboteur's still here. Who? He flicked his eyes over the men. Who? That's what he had to find out—soon! When the suit was off, he hurriedly put through a call to Gotch, reporting what had happened.

  The Colonel listened without comment When Crag finished, he was silent for a moment. Finally he replied:

  "Here's where we stand. We will immediately
comb the record of every intelligence agent involved in the last shakedown. Well also recomb the records of the Aztec crew, including yours. I've got to tell you this because it's serious. If there's a saboteur aboard—and I think there is—then the whole operation's in jeopardy. It'll be up to you to keep your eyes open and analyze your men. We've tried to be careful. We've checked everyone involved back to birth. But there's always the sleeper. It's happened before."

  "Check," Crag said. "I only hope yon don't catch up with all my early peccadillos."

  "This is no time to be funny. Now, some more news for you. Washington reports that the enemy launched another missile this morning."

  "Another one?" Crag sighed softly. This time there would be no satelloid, no Pickering to give his life.

  The Colonel continued grimly. "Radar indicates this is a different land of rocket. Its rate of climb ... its trajectory . . . indicates it's manned. Now it's a race."

  Crag thought a moment. "Any sign of a drone with it?"

  "No, that's the surprising part, if this is a full-scale attempt at establishing a moon base. And we believe it is."

  Crag asked sharply. "It couldn't be their atom-powered job?" The possibility filled him with alarm.

  "Positively not We've got our finger squarely on that one and it's a good year from launch-date. No, this is a conventional rocket . . perhaps more advanced than we 'had believed . ." His voice dropped off. "Well keep you posted," he added after a minute.

  "Roger." Crag sighed. He removed the earphone reflectively. He wouldn't tell the others yet. Now that they were in space maybe . . . just maybe ... he could find time to catch his breath. Damn, they hadn't anticipated all this during mdoctrination. The intercept-missile . . . time bomb . . possible traitor in the crew. What more could go wrong? For just a second he felt an intense hostility toward Cotch. An Air Force full of pilots and he had to pick him —and he wasn't even in the Air Force at the time. Lord, he should have contented himself with jockeying a jet airliner on some nice quiet hop. Like between L. A. and Pearl . . . with a girl at each end of the run.

  He thought wistfully about the prospect while he made a routine check of the instruments. Cabin pressure normal . . temperature 78 degrees F. . . nothing alarming in the radiation and.meteor impact readings. Carbon dioxide content normal. Things might get routine after all, he thought moodily. Except for one thing. The new rocket flashing skyward from east of the Caspian. One thing he was sure of. It spelled trouble.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE U. S. NAVY'S Space" Scan Radar Station No. 5 picked up the new rocket before it was fairly into space. It clung to it with an electromagnetic train, bleeding -it of data. The information was fed into computers, digested, analyzed and transferred to Alpine Base, and thence telemetered to the Aztec where it appeared as a pip on the analog display. The grid had automatically adjusted to a 500-mile scale with the positions of the intruder and Aztec separated by almost the width of the instrument face. The Aztec seemed to have a clear edge in the race for the moon. Prochaska became aware of the newcomer but refrained from questions, nor did Crag volunteer any information.

  Just now he wasn't worrying about the East World rocket Not at this point. With Drone Able riding to starboard, the Aztec was moving at an ever slower rate of speed. It would continue to decelerate, slowed by the earth's pull as it moved outward, traveling on inertial force since the silencing of its engines. By the time it reached the neutral zone where the moon and earth gravispheres canceled each other, the Aztec would have just enough speed left to coast into the moon's field of influence. Then it would accelerate again, picking up speed until slowed by its braking rockets. That was the hour that occupied his thoughts—a time when he would be called upon for split-second decisions coming in waves.

  He tried to anticipate every contingency. The mass ratio necessary to inject the Aztec into its moon trajectory had precluded fuel beyond the absolute minimum needed. The rocket would approach the moon in an elliptical path, correct its heading to a north-south line relative to the planet and decelerate in a tight spiral. At a precise point in space he would have to start using the braking rockets, slow the ship until they occupied an exact point in the infinite space-time continuum, then let down into cliff-brimmed ArzacheL a bleak, airless, utterly alien wasteland with but one virtue: Uranium. That and the fact that it represented the gateway to the Solar System.

  He mentally reviewed the scene a hundred times. He would do this and this and that He rehearsed each step, each operation, each fleeting second in which all the long years of planning would summate in victory or disaster. He was the X in the equation in which the Y-scale was represented by the radar altimeter. He would juggle speed, deceleration, altitude, mass and a dozen other variables, keeping them in delicate balance. Nor could he forget for one second the hostile architecture of their destination.

  For all practical purposes Arzachel was a huge hole sunk in the moon—a vast depression undoubtedly broken by rocks, rills, rough lava outcrops. The task struck him as similar to trying to land a high-speed jet in a well shaft. Well, almost as bad.

  He tried to anticipate possible contingencies, formulating his responses to each. He was, he thought, like an actor preparing for his first night. Only this time there would be no repeat performance. The critics were the gods of chance in a strictly one-night stand.

  Cotch was the man who had placed him here. But the responsibility was all his. GotchI All he gave a damn about was the moon—a chunk of real estate scorned by its Maker. Crag bit his Hp ruefully. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, boy, he thought. You asked for it—practically begged for it Now you've got it

  By the end of the second-day the novelty of space had worn off. Crag and Frochaska routinely checked the myriad of instruments jammed into the faces of the consoles: Meteorite impact counters, erosion counters, radiation counters—counters of all kinds. Little numbers on dials and gauges that told man how he was faring in the wastelands of the universe. Nagel kept a special watch on the oxygen pressure gauge. Meteorite damage had been one of Gotch's fears. A hole the size of a pinhead could mean eventual death through oxygen loss, hence Nagel seldom let a half-hour pass without checking the readings.

  Crag and Frochaska spelled each other in brief catnaps. Larkwell, with no duties to perform, was restless. At first he had passed long hours at the viewports, uttering exclamations of surprise and delight from time to time. But sight of the ebony sky with its fields of strewn jewels had, in the end, tended to make him moody. He spent most of the second day dozing.

  Nagel kept busy prowling through the oxygen gear, testing connections and making minor adjustments. His seeming concern with the equipment bothered Crag, The narrow escape with the time bomb had robbed him of his confidence in the crew. He told himself the bomb could have been planted during the last security shakedown. But a "sleeper" in security seemed highly unlikely. So did a "sleeper" in the Aztec. Everyone of them, he knew, had been scanned under the finest security microscope almost from birth to the moment each had climbed the tall ladder leading to the space cabin.

  He covertly watched Nagel, wondering if his prowling was a form of escape, an effort to forget his fears. He was beginning to understand the stark reality of Nagel's terror. It had been rnirrored in his face, a naked, horrible dread, during the recent emergency. No . . he wasn't the saboteur type. Larkwell, maybe. Perhaps Frochaska. But not Nagel. A saboteur would have iron nerves, a cold, icy fanaticism that never considered danger. But supposing the man were a consummate actor, his fear a mask to conceal his purpose?

  He debated the pros and cons. In the end he decided it would not be politic to forbid Nagel to handle the gear during flight He was, after all, their oxygen equipment specialist. He contented himself with keeping a sharp watch on Nagel's activities—a situation Nagel seemed unmindful of. He seemed to have lost some of his earlier fear. His face was alert, almost cheerful at times; yet it held the attitude of watchful waiting.

  Despite his liking for Frochask
a, Crag couldn't forget that he had failed to find the time bomb in a panel he had twice searched. Still, the console's complex maze of wiring and tubes had made an excellent hiding place. He had to admit he was lucky to have found it himself. He tried to push his suspicions from his mind without relaxing his vigilance. It was a hard job.

  By the third day the enemy missile had become a prime factor in the things he found to worry about. The intruder rocket had drawn closer. Alpine warned that the race was neck and neck. It had either escaped earth, at a higher speed or had continued to accelerate beyond the escape point. Crag regarded the reason as purely academic. The hard fact was that it would eventually overtake the still decelerating Aztec Just now it was a pip on the analog, a pip which before long would loom as large as Drone Able, perhaps as close. He tried to assess its meaning, vexed that Alpine seemed to be doing so little to help in the matter.

  Later Larkwell spotted the pip made by the East's rocket on the scope. That let the cat out of the bag as far as Crag was concerned. Soberly he informed them of its origin, Larkwell bit his hp thoughtfully. Nagel furrowed his brow, seemingly lost in contemplation. Prochaska's expression never changed. Crag assessed each reaction. In fairness, he also assessed his own feeling toward each of the men. He felt a positive dislike of Nagel and a positive liking for Pro-chaska. Larkwell was a neutral. He seemed to be a congenial, open-faced man who wore his feelings in plain sight. But there was a quality about him which, try as he would, he could not put his finger on.

  Nagel, he told himself, must have plenty oa-the ball After all, he had passed through a tough selection board. Just because the man's personality conflicted with his own was no grounds for suspicion. But the same reasoning could apply to the others. The fact remained—at least Gotch seemed certain— that his crew numbered a ringer among them. He was mulling it over when the communicator came to life. The message was in moon code.