One Against the Moon
DONALD A. WOLLHEIM
The World Publishing Company
CLEVELAND AND NEW YORK
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 56-9261
FIRST EDITION
HC856
Copyright 1956 by Donald A. Wollheim. All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in
any form without written permission from the publisher,
except for brief passages included in a review appearing
in a newspaper or magazine.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
To
WILLIAM BALTER
A fixed star in a fickle sky
DONALD A. WOLLHEIM
HAS WRITTEN
The Secret of Saturn's Rings
The Secret of the Martian Moons
HAS EDITED
Terror in the Modern Vein
Every Boy's Book of Science-Fiction
The Portable Novels of Science
Flight into Space
Adventures on Other Planets
The Pocket Book of Science-Fiction
Contents
1. Dream of Stars 13
2. White Sands or Red? 23
3. Up the Space Ladder 33
4. Riding the Atoms 51
5. Fall Without End 61
6. Target: Luna 71
7. The Honeycomb Place 81
8. Robinson Crusoe Carew 92
9. From Stone Age to Iron Age 102
10. The Incredible Footprints 111
11. The Glass Man 121
12. The Long Trek 131
13. The Sun and the Trap 147
14. The Man From Lake Baikal 157
15. Getaway Bomb 165
16. On the Crater Floor 175
17. Moon Calling Earth 187
18. Madman's Battle 198
19. Riding the Tornado 208
One Against the Moon
_1. To Dream of Stars_
That morning began like all the preceding mornings of the past two
years with the tinny jangling of the little alarm clock on Robin
Carew's bureau. Opening his black eyes, he struggled into a sitting
position on the narrow bed, reached out his hand and turned off the
alarm. He yawned, swung his feet to the floor, rubbed his eyes. It was
half past seven again of another workday morning.
There was no inkling that this day would be any different from others.
It was Monday again, which meant the start of the next five and a half
days' stretch of work. Sunday had come and gone, now just a memory
of a walk in the city's small park and sitting on a bench under the
afternoon sun reading a library book on astronomy.
Well, there was no getting around it, Robin thought. The stars, the
glory of the heavens--for him perhaps they would always be just a
daydream of his idle hours, never to be more than a vision of the
imagination, a thrill to be shared only by the printed words of other
men's observations and doings.
He got up, yawned his entire five foot three, stared in the tarnished
mirror over the worn bureau. He looked blankly at himself, then
suddenly winked. Ah, he thought, while there's life there's hope--and
besides, he had to get to work. He ran a brush through his tousled
brown hair, took off his pajamas, and climbed into his work clothes.
Grabbing his towel and his toothbrush, he opened the door and went out
into the hall toward the washroom.
The facilities at the Y were always clean at least, and maybe in a few
more months he would be promoted out of the apprentice class at the
factory. Then he could afford to get a bigger room on the floor above
with his own washstand and shower.
After he had returned and finished dressing, he glanced out the narrow
window. He could just make out a slit of sky and spot the sidewalk
below. It was a sunny day, he saw, and a warm one. Putting on his
jacket, he left his cap behind and went out, locking the door of his
little room behind him.
Not waiting for the creaky elevator, he skipped down the iron stairs to
the lobby. Waving hello to a couple of his fellow boarders, he made his
way over to the newsstand. There he paused to glance at the headlines,
to scan the racks of magazines to see if there were any he might think
of buying that he hadn't seen before. He didn't notice any. His eye,
rapidly discarding the featured stories in the papers about the usual
crimes and politics, was caught by a small heading:
ROCKET PROGRAM AHEAD OF SCHEDULE--PROJECT CHIEF
REPORTS TESTS ARE MANY MONTHS ADVANCED!
Robin stopped, rapidly glanced over the story. He wished he had the
time to read the whole story, but he knew he hadn't. Anyway, he could
probably borrow a copy during lunch hour from one of the fellows. But
it was stories like that which fascinated him.
As he went into the cafeteria at the Y and sat eating a quick
breakfast, he thought about the story. He'd always been fascinated by
rockets and the stars. Even when still a kid at the orphanage, he'd
read everything he could get on the subject. He'd never stopped doing
so. Now that he was out of the school, out on his own the past three
years, he still had the bug.
The White Sands and Redstone rocket experiments were making headlines
more and more. The first dozen little satellites had been thrilling
reading--the discussions of the permanent artificial satellite
program, now under way, was even more so, for it promised to be the
beginning of the long-projected Space Platform, from which in turn
would come the first real space flight.
Robin wished he knew more of the things that were going on. Somewhere
out there in the West, on the deserts and sands of New Mexico a couple
of thousand miles away, history was being made. Many of the fellows
working there couldn't be much older than he.
But fate was a grim and arbitrary thing. For others, a college
education could bring to a fine point the talent for mathematics and
chemistry and physics that was needed for this work. For an orphan
boy, however, the world reserved less glamorous and more immediately
practical objectives. Oh, sure, he'd had a chance at a scholarship, but
somehow he just hadn't made it. The manual training programs stressed
at the State Home had just not allowed him the extra time to study for
a scholarship. Even though his instructors had given him the chance, he
simply hadn't been able to make it.
For him, the study of abstract science was to be a matter of home
reading. He'd devoured all the books in the library on the stars. And
he still dreamed, even while working in the carpentry shop of the
factory here, of flying through space on wings of flame.
Perhaps, if he'd had a mother and father like most fellows, he'd have
gone to college, might even now be on his way to help the rocket men
conquer the universe. But his folks had died somewhere in the holocaust
of war, back during the fall of Hitler's Germany, back when he was
just a frightened and helpless kid of seven.
As he had agreed a thousand times since then, Robin reflected, as he
spooned cereal to his mouth, he was lucky even so. For somehow the GI's
had found a battered, dirty envelope sewn into his worn internment-camp
jacket with identification that proved him the American-born son of
American parents, who had been interned in the enemy country. But where
his parents were ... well, there had been some terrible bombing in
those days. There was never any trace of the Carews. Robin had only a
vague memory of his people, somewhere lost amid a nightmare of terror.
As most of the kids in the orphanage had, Robin dreamed of someday
finding his folks, of finding them rich. But it was, as always, a
dream. The American army had brought him home, had sought to trace his
folks, and had failed. Well, Robin still was lucky. It was no shame to
be a workingman in a democratic country.
Time was passing. Robin hastily gulped down the glass of milk he knew
he needed for his daily labors, and, paying his check, dashed out. He
caught the bus at the corner, crowding in with others on their way, and
rode it for fifteen minutes out to the edge of town where the big plant
stood.
He jumped off and headed for the main gates. He noticed a large crowd
of men standing in front of them. Why were they standing, he thought,
why didn't they go on in, punch their cards? He came up to them, saw
them standing around talking uneasily, some milling around, holding
their lunch pails idly in their hands. Robin pushed through to the main
gate. He saw a knot of men staring at a sign tacked on the post. He got
closer and read it.
It was a statement from the management. It seemed that the plant was
closed for six weeks, due to a combination of circumstances. There was
a shortage in the raw materials because of the heavy floods in the
mining areas that spring, and so the management had decided to take
advantage of that shortage to retool and recondition the works. Men in
several departments would be called in during the next few days, the
rest would be laid off temporarily. Another notice tacked below that
stated that the company had arranged with the union for compensation
during the period.
Robin stared at the notice numbly for a minute. He himself had not yet
been admitted to the union, for he was only a learning apprentice.
For him there would possibly be only a period of six barren, workless
weeks. He wandered away from the gates, drifted around idly, listening
to the groups of men talking.
Most of them seemed to be taking it calmly enough. Several of them were
talking with growing enthusiasm of organizing a hunting-and-fishing
trip upstate for the next week or so. One was talking of going home to
visit the old folks back at the farm. Most of them seemed to be looking
forward more or less to a period of loafing around at home with their
families.
Suddenly Robin felt more alone than usual. For him, there was no
family. Even at its best an orphanage has a certain coldness, a certain
impersonal precision that can never make up for the warmth of family
life. He had friends there, but surely by this time they, too, had
left, having gone into business or into the armed forces.
The cold halls of the Y offered no particular relaxation. Even
utilizing the city library to burrow deep into his favorite imaginative
studies of science seemed a barren prospect for six whole weeks.
He wandered away from the men, walked along the great factory wall,
hands in his pockets, strolling slowly away from the city, along the
road to the open country, beyond the end of the bus lines. He thought
about himself. He took stock of himself.
Nearly twenty now, he was a good mechanic, a pretty good carpenter,
handy. He'd always be able to get a job somewhere in which he could
work with his hands. He'd never thought too much though about the
future. He would be taken sooner or later by the armed forces. They
hadn't needed him and he hadn't thought about volunteering first. He
was always a little sensitive about his height, for he was short for
his age. This had probably operated subconsciously to keep him from
joining up.
I could sign up now, he thought. This might be the time. Besides, he
went on in his reasoning, if I volunteered I could pick my own branch
of the service. I could pick the Air Force and maybe get to see some
rockets and jets in action. I couldn't rate a pilot's commission
because I'm no college man, but I bet I could qualify as a mechanic,
get to work on the rocket planes. Why, maybe I could even manage to
get sent to White Sands, work on the Space Platform and the Artificial
Satellites. Maybe someday I'll be one of the guys who help tool up the
first rocket to the moon!
He found himself growing excited at the thought. But, he reminded
himself, my chances are slim of getting what I want. There are so
many good guys in the Air Force, my own chance of being sent to one
particular place is small, really small.
Somehow, he knew if he couldn't be around the rockets, he wouldn't be
happy under discipline. He'd had enough barracks life in the orphanage,
more didn't appeal to him without some special compensation--something
like White Sands.
So--he had six weeks with nothing to do. He walked on, beyond the town
now, alongside the highway, the morning sun shining down, the blue sky
beaming overhead, and he began to feel himself swelling with energy,
glowing with ambition.
Six weeks ... six weeks. He was young, he had no ties. Maybe he could
hitchhike to White Sands in time to look around, maybe spot a rocket go
winging off into the sky, then hitchhike back in time for the factory's
reopening.
The idea blazed into his mind, he felt his pulse beating
uncontrollably. Maybe, maybe, his mind added to the picture, maybe
you could get a job in White Sands, near the field. Maybe they hire
civilian workers? Or--maybe if you enlist there they'll let you serve
there?
Abruptly he turned around, started walking rapidly back to the city.
He'd do it, he told himself excitedly. He'd do it. He'd go back to the
Y now, today, collect what he needed, take the few dollars he'd saved
up, and go.
His mind repeated a rhythm as he walked. Do it now, if you don't do it
now, you'll never do it. This is your chance. Go. The West is calling.
The rockets are calling. Make a break for yourself. Go!
He reached the end of the bus line, hopped on the bus, vibrated in tune
to his racing thoughts all the way back.
But an hour and a half later, when he was standing in the bus terminal,
the first flush of excitement had drained away. Now he felt a cold
chill running through him. He had made the break, packed a few
necessities, drew his small reserve of cash from the bank, paid his
room rent six weeks in advance, and bought a ticket on the bus going
westward.
He couldn't afford the entire trip to New Mexico, so he bought passage
for a few hundred miles. After that he'd hike and thumb rides the rest
of the way. He didn't want to resort to charity so he had kept enough
funds to keep him in food and lodgings if necessary and maybe take him
part way home again.
For a moment before boarding the bus, Robin hesitated. Was it after all
but a daydream that he was pursuing? Was the cold reality to prove too
indifferent to the hopes of just an ordinary young fellow? Would White
Sands prove a disappointment? Was this a mistake he would regret?
For just a second he hesitated and then, shaking his head angrily as
if to drive out such thoughts, he stepped aboard the bus, slung his
lightly packed valise onto the rack over an empty seat, and sat down.
He would refuse to give up his vision. He would see this through.
The horn honked, two or three more passengers swung aboard, the driver
threw in the clutch, and the bus drove out of the terminal, along the
long, dusty road west.
_2. White Sands or Red?_
From Missouri where the bus ride had ended, the time had passed with
difficulty. There had been two hot days through Kansas, standing by
lonely roadsides while cars whizzed by without stopping, the strong sun
beating down over the flat green plains, the insects alive with the
fever of the endless wheat. Robin had to keep heading south, south and
west always, driving down when cars were going that way. Down through
Oklahoma, thumbing his way, sometimes with an Eastern tourist on his
way to California, sometimes with a tired rancher or oil worker on a
short haul to his home or town, sometimes with a bored truck driver
anxious to have someone to talk to on the long trip.
The closer he drew to his objective, the more excited he became. When
the oil fields and gray lands of Oklahoma began to turn to the green
flatness of the Texas Panhandle he grew silent, more intense. And
finally, one morning when he sped out of Amarillo sharing the high
front seat of a giant trailer truck bound for El Paso, he was almost
speechless for miles and miles. Then, suddenly, as the road clicked
across the invisible border of New Mexico, he began to talk. A sudden
calm invaded his nerves. He talked with the driver about things back
home, exchanged comments on the affairs in the news, his eyes taking
stock of this land all the time.
It was barren--for vast stretches dry desert and flat rock with
only sparse clumps of desert green--now and then a stretch of good
grasslands where cattle could be seen grazing. In the distance, gaunt
mountain chains rose and fell; and the air was getting clear and thin
as the road gradually rose in altitude.
After a bite in Roswell, when he piled back into the truck, Robin knew
he was on his last stretch. After the next stop, Alamogordo, he would
reach his destination, Las Cruces. Mention of Alamogordo, though, set
the driver talking about the atom bomb, for that had been the town that
had first seen the birth of that eerie fire which seemed so destined to
transform the world.
"Did you ever see one of those blasts?" asked Robin quietly.
"Yeah," said the driver slowly. "Guess you could say so. Didn't
actually see the thing itself, but I seen the glare one morning while
putting over in Alamogordo. Quite a sight. You know the blast was
plenty far away too; they don't fire them things off anywhere near
where they can hurt anybody. Wisht I'd get to see one of them rockets
go up they're always firing off at White Sands too. But I guess you
gotta be on the grounds for that, and they don't let visitors hang
around."
"No visitors?" asked Robin, a little uneasily.
"Nope. That's all top-secret stuff out there. Now that they got those
man-made satellite projects in operation, it's even more so. Maybe they
let a few reporters in on special occasions, or some high brass with
clearance from Washington, but nobody else can get in. Can't even get
the GI's who are out there to talk much about it. You'll see a lot of
them around Las Cruces Saturday nights on furlough but they just don't
discuss it."
"How far is White Sands from Las Cruces?" asked Robin.
"Oh, not too far, maybe thirty miles. The proving grounds are out on
the desert though, part of the Holloman Air Development Center that
is taking up a lot of this here Tularosa Basin these years. Without a
pass, you can't even get in sight of it. But, heck, you wouldn't want
to, I hope. Might get conked when one of those whacking big rockets
come down. They're always shooting 'em up on tests, making them bigger
and bigger. You can't tell me they always know where they're going to
come down!"
They passed Alamogordo, drove an hour more through the stillness of the
desert, and suddenly they were in Las Cruces. The truck drew to a halt,
and Robin dropped off, his valise in his hand. The city didn't seem
aware of its unique position on the map of world history.
Robin trudged along the main street until he found a small hotel within
his means. He got a room, washed from the trip, brushed his clothes.
He had not taken any pants to spare, having put on a strong pair of
khaki work trousers, figuring correctly that they were more the thing
for hitchhiking than his one good Sunday suit. By the time he went
downstairs night had fallen.
He got a bite to eat, walked around the town a bit, went back and to
bed. He was dog-tired from the long day's ride.
Next day he walked the town, looking it over, asking questions about
how to get to White Sands. He found that the truck driver's advice had
been right. There simply was no way a visitor could just go and watch.
It was all top-secret stuff, barred to any but legitimate personnel.
He found an Air Force recruiting office, went in, and talked with the
sergeant in charge. Robin had begun to dread the thought that in the
end he might have to go back to his home city and back to work in the
factory. He had so fixed his mind on the rockets, he couldn't bring
himself to admit defeat now.
The Air Force man confirmed the usual information. Robin pressed him to
say whether if he signed up for the service in Las Cruces he wouldn't
stand a good chance of being assigned there. The sergeant laughed.
"Well, it's possible, but it might take a little doing. You get in
the Air Force, let us train you for a good job, say you work to be a
mechanic for jets and rockets, then maybe you might be assigned here.
But there are lots of stations for men, and you might not. Still, if
you were to work for it, say after a year in service, you might apply
for a transfer to White Sands; it could be that you could get it.
But there's no guarantee, none at all. If the force needs you more
somewhere else, that'll have to be it. Why not sign up and try for it?"
But Robin shook his head. "Not yet. I want to see if maybe I can get a
civilian job there first, or maybe just visit it once."
The sergeant nodded. "You can try. After that, come around and see me
again." Robin nodded, and left.
He thought about that as he walked the streets. It might be a good
alternative. It did offer at least a chance at the work he dreamed of,
at being near the rockets. Yet--to be so near _now_ and be stopped. A
year, even in the Air Force, still seemed a mighty long time to wait.
He found the civilian employment office for the White Sands Proving
Grounds, but it was not only closed, it being Saturday afternoon, but
there was a sign saying, _No Help Wanted_.
That night he began to notice men in Air Force dress blues, others
in GI khaki, and even some in ordinary olive-drab fatigues appearing
in the streets. He realized it was Saturday night and the streets
were beginning to show the signs of life for the men's one night a
week in town. Ranchers were driving in, their cars lining the curbs.
Buses bearing the name of White Sands would come in, unload their
pleasure-hungry men, and park somewhere or else go back. White-capped
MP's were appearing at corners to augment the local police.
Nevertheless, there was mighty little disturbance. There weren't the
noisy carryings-on that usually marked towns near army bases when
soldiers had a night off. These were picked men, and they behaved
themselves.
Robin was not a drinker and not a roisterer, yet that evening he
wondered if he oughtn't to have been. For if he could have learned
to hang around some of the livelier bars, he might have been able to
strike up conversations with the men of White Sands. After a while, he
did indeed enter one, sat nursing a lone beer while listening to the
men.
But they did not talk business. They talked the talk that soldiers on
leave talk everywhere. Their girl friends, their pals, their latest
jokes, gossip, but never a word about rockets, never a word about
satellites, never a whisper about their work.
Robin drifted with the crowd in the streets for several hours, finally
again found another corner in a dim tavern where he sat, by this time
a little tired, a little confused, wondering whether he had not made a
mistake in coming here at all. The whole day had been frustration and
his spirits were at low ebb.
Two men in fatigue denims were seated near him, arguing. One was
plainly far gone under the influence of liquor. He was bleary-eyed,
nodding and mumbling. The other, trying to hold him, shaking him, was
actually almost as far gone. He was mumbling something about getting up
and going; they had to make the last truck to camp.
Finally the two got up, staggered to the men's room, and disappeared
inside. Robin resumed his meditations, noting that the place was nearly
empty now, that the streets were silent. Obviously time had run out for
the men, and they were on their way back to camp. Suddenly it occurred
to him that the two soldiers had failed to come out of the lavatory.
Robin slipped out of his seat, opened the door of the washroom, and
went in. The two men were there, together on the floor, sound asleep.
Hastily Robin knelt down, shook them. "Wake up, you got to go back to
camp!" he called. But he couldn't budge them. One mumbled something
without opening his eyes, slumped back, and began to snore. The other
didn't even respond that much.
For a moment Robin stood beside them, thinking that he ought to go and
tell the proprietor. Then he heard a voice call loudly outside in the
bar:
"Any of youse guys going back tonight better step on it! Bus's leaving
in two minutes!"
An MP rounding up the stragglers, Robin thought. And in that moment,
a sudden chill ran through him, a sudden wild thought leaped into
his head. He stood transfixed for an instant. For an instant which
seemed to last an eternity, an instant in which all his training, all
his instincts and ambitions fought and struggled together in a mad
hysteria. Here was an opportunity, here was a chance--yet a trickery,
an illegality.
If he borrowed one of the unconscious men's jackets, borrowed his pass,
he could ride back to White Sands that very night, and in the dark and
confusion, who would know?
Nobody, he felt sure. The next day--well, he'd be surely found,
arrested. But--in the meantime, for a blessed hour or so, he would see
the rockets in their gaunt glory, in their towering eminences, see an
assault against the skies, watch the hissing blue flame ascend to the
heavens, see a sight he would remember with joy the rest of his life.
What then if he spent some bad hours under arrest? What even if he went
to jail? Actually what could they do to him? He was no spy, he was no
saboteur. No matter how exhaustive the investigation, it would prove
nothing evil against him.
He remembered a sermon that had once been given at the orphanage. He
remembered the minister dwelling on the opportunities of life. He
remembered that which had sparked his imagination then, the minister's
depiction of the various roads each man must choose. "There comes a
time," the speaker had said, "in every man's life when various roads
open out before him, each leading in a different direction. If, at that
moment, he makes his choice, then his entire life may be forever set
upon a channel, and the other possible lives will vanish."
Was not this then such a crossroads? Robin could go back, be a factory
hand, be a contented mechanic or carpenter, marry, settle down, and
live his life without ever seeing rockets. Or he could take the road
that now, for a brief flicker, seemed open to him.
He bent down, removed the khaki work jacket the smaller of the two men
was wearing, shrugged his own shoulders into it, felt in its pocket,
pulled out a folded piece of paper, glanced at it. _Pass_, it read.
_Seven hours. Red Sands Station._
He shoved it into his pocket, pushed open the washroom door, and walked
rapidly to the street, his head down.
As he emerged onto the street, he was grabbed roughly by an MP. "Hurry,
feller," the man said. "What station?"
"Red Sands," muttered Robin in a low voice, and was instantly whirled
around bodily and given a push. "Up the street and around the corner.
The second bus. Run!"
Robin broke into a run, dashed around the corner. In the darkened side
street, three buses were warming up, the first already beginning to
roll. Robin ran for the second, and just as it was pulling away from
the curb, several hands reached out of the door, took hold of Robin's
hands, and heaved him aboard.
He found a seat in the back of the crowded bus, kept his head down to
avoid having anybody realize he was a stranger, and caught his breath.
The bus gathered speed, roared down the quiet side streets, and turned
onto the highway beyond the town. Robin was on his way to the rockets,
to the famous White Sands Proving Grounds ... or was he? What was the
Red Sands Station anyway? _Red_ Sands? Why had he never heard of it?
_3. Up the Space Ladder_
The bus roared on through the night, its cargo of men now mainly
silent, dozing as their vehicle jolted along. The moon, which was full,
shed a pale glow over the desolate landscape through which the road ran
straight as an arrow. The vehicle had departed from the main highway
fairly soon after leaving town, and had gone along another leading out
into the wastes which was the government reserve. Robin had caught
a momentary glimpse of floodlighted signs warning casual motorists
against the use of the road, warning all that it was U.S. property.
The men in the bus talked little. Most of them tired, and some a little
the worse for a night's revels, were sleeping. Two or three snored
away, unmindful of the hard seats and the jolting along the road.
Seated in the back, shoulder to shoulder with several others, Robin
kept quiet, watching the scene through the open windows and seeing
what could be seen of the terrain without making his observations too
obvious.
Thus far the landscape was the familiar desert of New Mexico, desolate
and arid flatland with which Robin had become familiar on the trip
down. On the horizon he could see the humps of mountains, the peaks
that bordered the vast proving grounds.
Near him, a couple of soldiers were conversing in low tones and Robin
caught snatches of their conversation. At first it was mainly talk of
what they had seen and done that night, their girl friends, and so on.
By and by they began to talk a bit about their work. Robin strained his
ears.
"I was thinking of asking for a transfer back to White Sands," said one
of the men slowly. "Some of that new fuel they're bringing in makes me
real uneasy."
"Ahh," said the other, "you're just letting that extra security talk
give you nerves. Sure, it's supposed to be atomic stuff, new, maybe
even untested as far as I know, but, nuts, you can't get blown up any
worse than you can handling that liquid oxygen and peroxide they got at
White Sands. In fact, I understand that this stuff isn't half as tricky
to pour as the old stuff."
"Yeah, I know. I seen some of it being poured yesterday into that new
big fellow they're lining up for tomorrow. But the point is that even
if it's easier to pour--none of that fizzing and spitting you get when
you leak a drop or two--it's atomic. That's the thing, atomic. What
would happen if a White Sands rocket blew ... it'd be a big bang, sure
enough, but it wouldn't blow the whole countryside to bits. But take
this new stuff ... whew ... we'd all be one Bikini if it went off all
at once."
The other soldier was silent a moment. "Well," he said finally, "could
be. On the other hand, I heard them say that it is really not half
as explosive as the old stuff. That loxygen they use in the original
Vikings is really dangerous, will go off quick at any spark. But this
new stuff, it won't actually go off until it's touched off after the
rocket has gone up a few miles. It's actually hard to blast--and then I
understand they ain't sure it'll work."
The other one nodded. "Uh uh, so they say, but you notice where they
moved our outfit, didn't you? They don't want to blow the main fields
out of existence by accident, just in case they might be a little
wrong. So they invented this Red Sands layout. I don't even like the
name."
The soldiers fell silent awhile. Robin turned these words over
carefully. He had read nothing of any Red Sands operation, and
he remembered nothing of any talk about atomic fuels. In fact
he'd understood that the problem was still one they had failed to
solve--though the idea was intriguing.
Chemical fuels, he knew, had definitely limited drive capacities. The
most powerful chemical fuels possible even theoretically were those
already in use, and were basically merely liquid oxygen and liquid
hydrogen. And he knew that the main obstacle that always had to be
faced by rocket engineers was the tremendous quantities and weights of
the fuels to be burned in order to lift even a single pound of cargo.
Atomic power, if liberated, had on the other hand almost unlimited
possibilities as fuel. A mere pound or so of atomically liberated
material could probably drive a spaceship a million miles with a full
pay load too. But how to combine atomic explosions with controlled
rocket fire? The problem had never been answered--at least not in the
magazine and newspaper stories he had ever read.
He thought about it awhile. Then the bus honked its horn. Robin
craned his neck, looked forward. He saw they were paralleling a high
wire fence and coming to a lighted area. A large sign on a wide road
entrance branching off caught his eye and he read the magic words,
_White Sands_.
For a moment he thought the bus was going to enter as the driver slowed
down. They came abreast of the gateway but the driver merely honked
and waved and passed it by, Robin catching a glimpse of whitewashed
barracks and low hangarlike structures beyond the gate. Then they
roared on into the moonlit night, on toward the empty reaches of the
desert where the mountains loomed dark in the horizon.
Where was Red Sands? How far? Robin speculated on it. He had evidently
hit on something more than he'd reckoned. This was a development
unknown to the public. This was something that must have combined the
special nature of the Los Alamos atomic testing grounds with the rocket
grounds. And it was obviously tucked far away from them all.
Suppose they caught him there, would he get off as lightly as he
might at White Sands? Where atomics was concerned, secrecy was
still enforced, despite the release of much information due to the
installation of peaceful atomic plants in various parts of the world.
But everyone knew that the world was still merely at the threshold of
atomic glories and the nations were still anxiously vying with each
other for leadership.
He supposed that perhaps he might be sent to jail. He might perhaps be
confined to the Red Sands grounds until such time as what he was to
learn had become public property. That might take years! Robin squirmed
a little as he thought over this possibility. It didn't appeal to him.
Yet, the die was cast and there was now little he could do about it.
He could, he thought, surrender now to the men in the bus. In that
way, he'd be stopped from entering the forbidden area at all and might
then merely get a bawling out and be released. But something in him
absolutely rebelled at the thought. This far he had gone, this far he
had moved toward the realization of a dream that had held him from
childhood. He would go on, and if he were to pay the penalties for
trespassing, he would at least see what he was paying for. Maybe,
maybe, he would yet see a rocket go off.
What was it the soldier had said, "that big fellow ... for tomorrow."
Then Robin would be in time.
The bus roared on for what seemed at least another hour. Finally it
approached another fenced-in area, slowed down, and came to a halt
briefly before a guarded gateway. The men stirred in their seats, the
sleepers were nudged awake, everyone started to squirm around. The
driver exchanged a few words with the guards, the bus shifted gears,
rolled slowly through the gate, and came to a stop. Stiffly the men
began to climb out.
Robin waited until about half the men had preceded him, then, keeping
his head low, followed. As the men jumped down from the bus, they
stepped up to an MP standing by and showed him their passes. He
examined each with a flashlight, took it, and waved the men on.
Robin's feet hit the ground. Carefully keeping close to the man in
front of him, he dug for the pass he'd found in his borrowed jacket.
Holding it out, he stepped up to the guard. The pass was seized,
scrutinized, and with a tap of the hand, Robin was waved on.
The men were striding off in the direction of a group of low, long
buildings of the standard army barracks type. Robin took the same
general direction, casting his eyes about trying to estimate where he
was and what was around.
The moon was high and its light was strong in the clear desert air. A
few dim bulbs showed on posts and one or two lights were flashed in
the windows of the barracks. The men were heading directly for their
beds--and Robin knew he had to head in the same direction if he did
not wish to incur suspicion. It was a ticklish moment, for he did not
dare do anything to arouse the suspicion that he was a stranger here.
It was a long walk across the parade grounds and he allowed as much
space as possible to drag out between himself and the other men. He
came closer to the dark barracks buildings, walked along toward a
dark doorway through which another man had gone. Turning his head he
saw no one near him who might be watching, and Robin stepped into the
dark doorway, then quickly side-stepped, slipped around the side of
the building, and walked silently down the dark space between the two
adjoining barracks.
At the far end of the structures, remaining hidden in the shadow cast
by the moon, he looked outward. He could see, stretching out beyond,
the level ground of the desert. He could make out the structures of
what looked like hangars and machine shops, and he could see a number
of vehicles, trucks, and odd cranes parked around. Far away he caught a
glimpse of something white. Was it a rocket?
He crouched in the shadow and waited. After a while he heard no more
footsteps, he saw the last lights in the barracks flicker out and
silence descend on the station. He glanced at his watch. It was about
two in the morning.
Silently he moved out of the barracks' shadow, walked fast and softly
to the shadow of the nearest truck. Reaching it, he paused, looked
back. Nothing stirred. Proceeding in that fashion, Robin moved from
shadow to shadow, keeping as little in the bright moonlight as he
could. He reached a building, clearly a tool house. He walked along
it, went on beyond, passed through the shadowed side of a long hangar,
found a narrow roadway leading out to where the mysterious white object
rested. He walked alongside it, half stooping, but feeling sure that no
one had seen him. The Red Sands Station was silent.
The white object proved to be a good deal farther away than he'd
thought. He knew that distances in the desert were very deceptive, felt
himself growing tired. Why, this objective might be two or three miles
away, he realized now, but only increased his pace as if in answer to
his tiring frame. The cold, dry desert air was bracing, and nothing
moved save the occasional scurry of some tiny rat or lizard.
What he had seen was indeed a rocket. It was at first a dot of white.
Then it grew into a line of white like a snowy tree. As he neared it
he realized its true dimensions. It was a tall giant rocket, as tall
as an eight-story building, long and slim, towering in the desert
like an obelisk left by some Aztec ruler. It was held by a framework
of metal girders, like that of a newly completed building whose outer
skeleton had not yet been dismantled. Near it stood a truck on high,
thick wheels which bore a long, cranelike apparatus resembling the
tentacles of some weird monster-insect. The rocket stood with its four
wide-flanged fins jutting out near the base.
Robin stopped at its base and stared up. He studied it, saw that it was
apparently segmented, having lines of cleavage that divided it into
four parts, the one at the pointed top being the shortest. This was a
four-step rocket, he recognized, and knew at that moment that here also
was a step beyond what the public knew.
He walked slowly around it, awed and silent. He noticed now that there
was a thin metal ladder running up the standing framework. The crane
in the truck was for loading the top, he knew, but he could use this
ladder himself to climb up without trying to start the truck-driven
lift.
He reached the bottom rung of the skeleton ladder, saw a sign attached
to the framework. He looked at it, saw a number, apparently the code
designation of this rocket. Glancing over it, the moonlight was not
strong enough to allow him to read the words. He looked at the parked
truck with the crane, walked over to it, looked inside. He found a
flashlight in the dashboard compartment, took it. Lying over the seat
was a pea jacket. The air was cold and would become colder. Robin
borrowed it, shrugged into it. He saw a package lying beneath it,
lifted it. A couple of candy bars it was. The driver must have had a
sweet tooth. Robin stuffed the candy into the pocket of the jacket,
which had other things in it as well.
He returned to the rocket, read the work sheet by his flashlight. Most
of it was incomprehensible. He saw that the sheet referred only to the
fueling. Steps two, three, and four were fueled. Step one, the big one
at the base was still empty and he saw that it was marked for fueling
by five that morning. Firing time, he noted, was set for six.
Robin glanced up. Here was a chance to examine the rocket completely.
Glancing around again, he swung up the ladder, started the climb. The
rocket's sides were welded metal, shiny and painted white. The various
fuel sections were numbered in large black letters and the contents
listed. He saw that the first and main fuel chamber occupied half of
the length. The three upper sections, already loaded, he remembered,
were marked in liters. The name of the fuel was meaningless to him. It
must be, he thought, the atomic stuff the soldier had mentioned. This
rocket could be a huge atomic bomb, he thought, chilled for a moment.
But he continued climbing. At the very tip, he saw that two small,
circular doors, like the escape hatches of submarines, were set flush
in the side. One was closed, the upper and larger one was slightly
ajar. He reached it, looked in. He flashed his light, peered around. It
was a narrow, closetlike space, filling a section of the uppermost tip,
just beneath the point of the top. It was padded and empty.
Robin looked out from his perch at the top of the ladder. He looked
away across the desert to the distant buildings of the Red Sands
Station. He started suddenly. Something was blinking in the distance.
He strained his eyes. Two tiny white lights were moving toward him from
far away. He heard the distant purr of a motor. A jeep was coming to
the rocket from the Red Sands Station. Had they seen his flashlight?
Were they coming to investigate?
He glanced desperately downward. The ground seemed so far away. He
could never climb down the ladder in time to escape detection. The
jeep was approaching swiftly. What could he do?
In a flash of inspiration, he saw the open port of the dark
closet-space at the rocket's tip. He climbed into it, swinging out from
the ladder, hovering over the abyss, swinging his legs into the dark,
padded interior. He crammed himself into it, found he fitted it neatly
with very little room to spare and, grasping the circular door, pulled
it toward him. It swung shut on its oiled hinges, clicked tightly into
place.
Robin crouched down, silent.
For a while there was dead silence. Robin wondered if he would be able
to hear anything that went on outside, considering the padding of the
little space. For once he was thankful for being so short. If he'd been
a few inches taller, he'd have found his position very uncomfortable.
It was cramped, but not unbearable.
He strained his ears, finally heard the vibrations of the jeep draw up
to the base of the rocket and stop. He heard faint sounds which must
have been the muffled voices of the jeep's riders. He lay quietly,
hoping he would not be discovered.
Outside, the jeep had come to a stop and the two men in the front seat
stared around suspiciously. "I'd have sworn I saw a light for a moment
out here," said the driver.
The other scratched his head, looked around. "I'd better get out and
look around, just to be certain."
They both descended from the jeep. One went over and looked into the
trucks and carriers, peering under them for possible hideaways. The
other poked around the scaffolding at the base of the rocket. "This is
the one they're firing off tomorrow, isn't it?" he asked when the other
joined him after a moment.
"Yeah," answered his companion, "or rather this morning. In fact in
only a few hours. They've only got to load the main fuel chambers and
they're ready." He shined his flashlight on the operations chart, the
same one that Robin had examined earlier. "I wonder how come they
loaded the other three earlier. That's odd. I thought that stuff
couldn't hang around too long."
"Don't you know," said the other, "this is that big top-secret
experimental job they were working so fast on this week? Something to
do with a new kind of fuel, fairly stable but loaded with radioactive
elements. Some type of new compound which is supposed to add an atomic
disintegration impetus when it goes off. Heard one of the engineers
explain it as something like plutonium particles in suspension which
get touched off atomically as they emerge in the rocket blast. They
don't know for sure it will work."
The other looked up at the towering structure. "I guess that's how come
they're sending it up first with the regular loxygen fuel--so if the
whole thing goes bang at once, it'll be high enough up not to blow the
rest of us to kingdom come." He walked around the base a bit, stopped,
flashed his light down, and picked up something. It was a cardboard
sign that had been lying on the ground. He looked at it a moment.
"Hey, this must have fallen from the cargo chamber," he said, showing
his comrade the sign.
It read: _Instruments in place. Do not disturb._ He turned it over. On
the back it read: _Ready for loading._
"I better put this back where it fell from," he said, adding, "but
which side is correct? Did you say they were firing it at six?"
At his companion's assent, he said, "Well, I guess maybe they must have
loaded the cameras and radio equipment this afternoon. I'll go up, put
this back, and check it."
The man started up the ladder, the same one that Robin had climbed a
short while before. When he had arrived before the section where Robin
lay hidden, he tried the circular door of that section. It was tightly
shut. This signified to him that it was already loaded and without
further thought he carefully attached the little sign reading _Do not
disturb_ to the door.
After a few more minutes' search, the two men climbed back in their
jeep and drove back to the barracks-grounds.
Inside the rocket, Robin had been unable to hear what they had been
saying. Their voices came to him heavily muffled and distorted and he
could not recognize the words. He heard the man come up the scaffolding
ladder and try the door. But it had been tight and it had not budged.
Then he'd gone down and a little later Robin had heard the jeep drive
away.
Robin lay there quietly on the soft padding and wondered how long he
should stay in hiding. They might have left a man on guard or they
might be keeping an eye on the rocket. If he came out right away, they
might spot him. Better wait here a half hour, he said to himself, and
then tried to make himself more comfortable.
The day had been a long one and a tense one. He was more tired than
he'd thought. The tiny, cramped cubby-hole in the nose of the rocket
was pitch-dark, cushioned, and utterly quiet. Robin rested his eyes.
Before he knew it, he was sound asleep. The air was close and became
stale; Robin's slumber slowly became deep and drugged.
* * * * *
The sun rose at five and with it there arrived the men who would load
and launch the rocket--several truckloads in fact, with a couple of
tanks of fuel. The volatile liquids were readied for pouring into the
tanks and chambers of the first and main firing section. The engineers
arrived. They began to check the loads and the preparations.
"The instruments in place?" asked Major Bronck, who was in charge of
this operation. His assistant, a civilian engineer, glanced up the
ladder.
"According to the notice up there, they are. I don't remember seeing
them installed myself, though. May have been done after we left
yesterday."
"Who was in charge of them?" the major asked.
"Jackson, sir," the answer came, "but he hasn't been in camp today.
Must have been left overnight in town."
The major frowned. "Well, I don't see the instruments around so I
guess he loaded them all right. Sloppy way of doing things, though. I
don't like it. In fact, I don't particularly like this whole job. It's
too hasty, too irregular."
The other smiled, shrugged. "Can't help it. Big rush orders from
Washington. They wouldn't even let us put this shot off till Monday.
Had to get a fast test on this atomic fuel. I guess it's another of
those things they think the Russians are up to."
"Ahh, that's always an excuse for rushing. But I still say haste makes
waste. Well, anyway we've got our orders so off it goes this morning.
Trackers on the job?"
"Sure, they're right on it. But we've still got to load the animals.
This is going to be a high flier and the space-medicine people want in
on it. Here's their stuff now."
A light truck rolled up and two men came out carrying a crate. One of
the automatic rolling cranes lifted them all up to the nose of the
rocket. There, just below the instrument compartment, they opened
another port and installed their burden, shutting the compartment again
and sealing it.
The major glanced at his watch, looked around. The main chamber was
loaded, the tank had departed. At his order, the rolling scaffolding
was swiftly detached and driven away. Now the rocket stood alone on its
own fins, pointing skyward into the pink and orange dawn, its side a
dazzling white, its nose a bright red, each section banded in green.
"How far do you think it will go?" the major asked his assistant.