Shandor cursed. "JF223R-864. Name is Jerry Chandler. Give it a check if
you want to." He flipped the switch, and accelerated for the ridge of
hills that marked the Colorado border as the radio signal continued to
bleep angrily, and a trio of pursuit planes on the ground began warming
up. Shandor sighed, hoping they would check before they sent ships after
him. It might at least delay them until he reached his destination.
Another hour carried him to the heart of the Rockies, and across the
great salt fields of Utah. His fuel tanks were low, being emptied one by
one as the tiny ship sped through the bright morning sky, and Tom was
growing uneasy, until suddenly, far to the west and slightly to the
north he spotted the plant, nestling in the mountain foothills. It lay
far below, sprawling like some sort of giant spider across the rugged
terrain. Several hundred cars spread out to the south of the plant, and
he could see others speeding in from the temporary village across the
ridge. Everything was quiet, orderly. He could see the shipments,
crated, sitting in freight cars to the north. And then he saw the drill
line running over to the right of the plant. He followed it, quickly
checking a topographical map in the cockpit, and his heart started
pounding. The railroad branch ran between two low peaks and curved out
toward the desert. Moving over it, he saw the curve, saw it as it cut
off to the left--and seemed to stop dead in the middle of the desert
sand--
Shandor circled even lower, keeping one ear cocked on the radio, and
settled the ship on the railroad line. And just as he cut the motors, he
heard the shrill whine of three pursuit ships screaming in from the
Eastern horizon--
He was out of the 'copter almost as soon as it had touched, throwing a
jacket over his arm, and racing for the place where the drill line
ended. Because he had seen as he slid in for a landing, just what he had
suspected from the topographical map. The drill didn't end in the middle
of a desert at all. It went right on into the mountainside.
The excavation was quite large, the entrance covered and camouflaged
neatly to give the very impression that he had gotten from the air.
Under the camouflage the space was crowded, stacked with crates, boxes,
materials, stacked all along the walls of the tunnel. He followed the
rails in, lighting his way with a small pocket flashlight when the
tunnel turned a corner, cutting off the daylight. Suddenly the tunnel
widened, opening out into a much wider room. He sensed, rather than saw,
the immense size of the vault, smelt the odd, bitter odor in the air.
With the flashlight he probed the darkness, spotting the high, vaulted
ceiling above him. And below him--
At first he couldn't see, probing the vast excavation before him, and
then, strangely, he saw but couldn't realize what he saw. He stared for
a solid minute, uncomprehending, then, stifling a gasp, he _knew what he
was looking at_--
Lights. He had to have lights, to see clearly what he couldn't believe.
Frantically, he spun the flashlight, seeking a light panel, and then,
fascinated, he turned the little oval of light back to the pit. And then
he heard the barest whisper of sound, the faintest intake of breath, and
he ducked, frozen, as a blow whistled past his ear. A second blow from
the side caught him solidly in the blackness, grunting, flailing out
into a tangle of legs and arms, cursing, catching a foot in his face,
striking up into soft, yielding flesh--
And his head suddenly exploded into a million dazzling lights as he sank
unconscious to the ground--
* * * * *
It was a tiny room, completely without windows, the artificial light
filtering through from ventilation slits near the top. Shandor sat up,
shaking as the chill in the room became painfully evident. A small
electric heater sat in the corner beaming valiantly, but the heat hardly
reached his numbed toes. He stood up, shaking himself, slapping his arms
against his sides to drive off the coldness--and he heard a noise
through the door as soon as he had made a sound.
Muted footsteps stopped outside the door, and a huge man stepped inside.
He looked at Shandor carefully, then closed the door behind him, without
locking it. "I'm Baker," he rasped cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"
Shandor rubbed his head, suddenly and acutely aware of a very sore nose
and a bruised rib cage. "Not so hot," he muttered. "How long have I been
out?"
"Long enough." The man pulled out a plug of tobacco, ripped off a chunk
with his teeth. "Chew?"
"I smoke." Shandor fished for cigarettes in an empty pocket.
"Not in here you don't," said Baker. He shrugged his huge shoulders and
settled affably down on a bench near the wall. "You feel like talking?"
Shandor eyed the unlocked door, and turned his eyes to the huge man.
"Sure," he said. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't want to talk about nothin'," the big man replied,
indifferently. "Thought you might, though."
"Are you the one that roughed me up?"
"Yuh." Baker grinned. "Hope I didn't hurt you much. Boss said to keep
you in one piece, but we had to hurry up, and take care of those Army
guys you brought in on your tail. That was dumb. You almost upset
everything."
Memory flooded back, and Shandor's eyes widened. "Yes--they followed me
all the way from Lincoln--what happened to them?"
Baker grinned and chomped his tobacco. "They're a long way away now.
Don't worry about them."
Shandor eyed the door uneasily. The latch hadn't caught, and the door
had swung open an inch or two. "Where am I?" he asked, inching toward
the door. "What--what are you planning to do to me?"
Baker watched him edging away. "You're safe," he said. "The boss'll talk
to you pretty soon if you feel like it--" He squinted at Tom in
surprise, pointing an indolent thumb toward the door. "You planning to
go out or something?"
Tom stopped short, his face red. The big man shrugged. "Go ahead. I
ain't going to stop you." He grinned. "Go as far as you can."
Without a word Shandor threw open the door, looked out into the concrete
corridor. At the end was a large, bright room. Cautiously he started
down, then suddenly let out a cry and broke into a run, his eyes wide--
He reached the room, a large room, with heavy plastic windows. He ran to
one of the windows, pulse pounding, and stared, a cry choking in his
throat. The blackness of the crags contrasted dimly with the inky
blackness of the sky beyond. Mile upon mile of jagged, rocky crags,
black rock, ageless, unaged rock. And it struck him with a jolt how
easily he had been able to run, how lightning-swift his movements. He
stared again, and then he saw what he had seen in the pit, standing high
outside the building on a rocky flat, standing bright and silvery, like
a phantom finger pointing to the inky heavens, sleek, smooth, resting on
polished tailfins, like an other-worldly bird poised for flight--
A voice behind him said, "You aren't really going anyplace, you know.
Why run?" It was a soft voice, a kindly voice, cultured, not rough and
biting like Baker's voice. It came from directly behind Shandor, and he
felt his skin crawl. He had heard that voice before--many times before.
Even in his dreams he had heard that voice. "You see, it's pretty cold
out there. And there isn't any air. You're on the Moon, Mr. Shandor--"
He whirled, his face twisted and white. And he stared at the small
figure standing at the door, a stoop-shouldered man, white hair slightly
untidy, crow's-feet about his tired eyes. An old man, with eyes that
carried a sparkle of youth and kindliness. The eyes of David P.
Ingersoll.
* * * * *
Shandor stared for a long moment, shaking his head like a man seeing a
phantom. When he found words, his voice was choked, the words wrenched
out as if by force. "You're--you're alive."
"Yes. I'm alive."
"Then--" Shandor shook his head violently, turning to the window, and
back to the small, white-haired man. "Then your death was just a fake."