Crag woke with a start, sensing he was not alone. The sound came
again--a key being fitted into a lock. He started from bed as the door
swung open.
"Easy. It's me--Gotch." Crag relaxed. A square solid figure took form.
"Don't turn on the light."
"Okay. What gives?"
"One moment." Gotch turned back toward the door and beckoned. Another
figure glided into the room--a shadow in the dim light. Crag caught the
glint of a uniform. Air Force officer, he thought.
Gotch said crisply; "Out of bed."
He climbed out, standing alongside the bed in his shorts, wondering at
the Colonel's cloak-and-dagger approach.
"Okay, Major, it's your turn," Gotch said.
The newcomer--Crag saw he was a major--methodically stripped down to his
shorts and got into bed without a word. Crag grinned, wondering how the
Major liked his part in Step One. It was scarcely a lead role.
Gotch cut into his thoughts. "Get dressed." He indicated the Major's
uniform. Crag donned the garments silently. When he had finished the
Colonel walked around him in the dark, studying him from all angles.
"Seems to fit very well," he said finally. "All right, let's go."
Crag followed him from the room wondering what the unknown Major must be
thinking. He wanted to ask about his double but refrained. Long ago he
had learned there was a time to talk, and a time to keep quiet. This was
the quiet time. At the outer door four soldiers sprang from the darkness
and boxed them in. A chauffeur jumped from a waiting car and opened the
rear door. At the last moment Crag stepped aside and made a mock bow.
"After you, Colonel." His voice held a touch of sarcasm.
Gotch grunted and climbed into the rear seat and he followed. The
chauffeur blinked his lights twice before starting the engine. Somewhere
ahead a car pulled away from the curb. They followed, leaving the four
soldiers behind. Crag twisted his body and looked curiously out the rear
window. Another car dogged their wake. Precautions, always precautions,
he thought. Gotch had entered with an Air Force officer and had
ostensibly left with one; ergo, it must be the same officer. He
chuckled, thinking he had more doubles than a movie star.
They sped through the night with the escorts fore and aft. Gotch was a
silent hulking form on the seat beside him. It's his zero hour, too,
Crag thought. The Colonel had tossed the dice. Now he was waiting for
their fall, with his career in the pot. After a while Gotch said
conversationally:
"You'll report in at Albrook, Major. I imagine you'll be getting in a
bit of flying from here on out."
Talking for the chauffeur's benefit, Crag thought. Good Lord, did every
move have to be cloak and dagger? Aloud he said:
"Be good to get back in the air again. Perhaps anti-sub patrol, eh?"
"Very likely."
They fell silent again. The car skimmed west on Highway 80, leaving the
silver rocket farther behind with every mile. Where to and what next? He
gave up trying to figure the Colonel's strategy. One thing he was sure
of. The hard-faced man next to him knew exactly what he was doing. If it
was secret agent stuff, then that's the way it had to be played.
* * * * *
He leaned back and thought of the task ahead--the rocket he had lived
with for over a year. Now the marriage would be consummated. Every
detail of the Aztec was vivid in his mind. Like the three great motors
tucked triangularly between her tail fins, each a tank equipped with a
flaring nozzle to feed in hot gases under pressure. He pictured the fuel
tanks just forward of the engines; the way the fuels were mixed,
vaporized, forced into the fireports where they would ignite and react
explosively, generating the enormous volumes of flaming hot gas to drive
out through the jet tubes and provide the tremendous thrust needed to
boost her into the skies. Between the engines and fuel tanks was a maze
of machinery--fuel lines, speed controllers, electric motors.
He let his mind rove over the rocket thinking that before many hours
had passed he would need every morsel of the knowledge he had so
carefully gathered. Midway where the hull tapered was a joint, the
separation point between the first and second stages. The second stage
had one engine fed by two tanks. The exterior of the second stage was
smooth, finless, for it was designed to operate at the fringe of space
where the air molecules were widely spaced; but it could be steered by
small deflectors mounted in its blast stream.
The third stage was little more than a space cabin riding between the
tapered nose cone and a single relatively low-thrust engine. Between the
engine and tanks was a maze of turbines, pumps, meters, motors, wires. A
generator provided electricity for the ship's electric and electronic
equipment; this in turn was spun by a turbine driven by the explosive
decomposition of hydrogen peroxide. Forward of this was the Brain, a
complex guidance mechanism which monitored engine performance, kept
track of speed, computed course. All that was needed was the human hand.
His hand.
* * * * *
They traveled several hours with only occasional words, purring across
the flat sandy wastes at a steady seventy. The cars boxing them in kept
at a steady distance.
Crag watched the yellow headlights sweep across the sage lining the
highway, giving an odd illusion of movement. Light and shadow danced in
eerie patterns. The chauffeur turned onto a two-lane road heading north.
Alpine Base, Crag thought. He had been stationed there several years
before. Now it was reputed to be the launch site of one of the three
drones slated to cross the gulfs of space. The chauffeur drove past a
housing area and turned in the direction he knew the strip to be.
* * * * *
Somewhere in the darkness ahead a drone brooded on its pad, one of the
children of the silver missile they'd left behind. But why the drone?
The question bothered him. They were stopped several times in the next
half mile. Each time Gotch gave his name and rank and extended his
credentials. Each time they were waved on by silent sharp-eyed sentries,
but only after an exacting scrutiny. Crag was groping for answers when
the chauffeur pulled to one side of the road and stopped. He leaped out
and opened the rear door, standing silently to one side. When they
emerged, he got back into the car and drove away. No word had been
spoken. Figures moved toward them, coming out of the blackness.
"Stand where you are and be recognized." The figures took
shape--soldiers with leveled rifles. They stood very still until one
wearing a captain's bars approached, flashing a light in their faces.
"Identity?"
Crag's companion extended his credentials.
"Colonel Michael Gotch," he monotoned. The Captain turned the light on
Gotch's face to compare it with the picture on the identification card.
He paid scant attention to Crag. Finally he looked up.
"Proceed, Sir." It was evident the Colonel's guest was very much
expected.
Gotch struck off through the darkness with Crag at his heels. The stars
shone with icy brilliance. Overhead Antares stared down from its lair in
Scorpio, blinking with fearful venom. The smell of sage filled the air,
and some sweet elusive odor Crag couldn't identify. A warmth stole
upward as the furnace of the desert gave up its stored heat. He strained
his eyes into the darkness; stars, the black desert ... and the hulking
form of Gotch, moving with certain steps.
He saw the rocket with startling suddenness--a great black silhouette
blotting out a segment of the stars. It stood gigantic, towering,
graceful, a taper-nosed monster crouched to spring, its finned haunches
squatted against the launch pad.
They were stopped, challenged, allowed to proceed. Crag pondered the
reason for their visit to the drone. Gotch, he knew, had a good reason
for every move he made. They drew nearer and he saw that most of the
catwalks, guardrails and metal supports had been removed--a certain sign
that the giant before them was near its zero hour.
Another sentry gave challenge at the base of the behemoth. Crag whistled
to himself. This one wore the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel! The
ritual of identification was exacting before the sentry moved aside. A
ladder zigzagged upward through what skeletal framework still remained.
Crag lifted his eyes. It terminated high up, near the nose.
This was the Aztec! The real Aztec! The truth came in a rush. The huge
silver ship at Burning Sands, which bore the name Aztec, was merely a
fake, a subterfuge, a pawn in the complex game of agents and
counter-agents. He knew he was right.
"After you," Gotch said. He indicated the ladder and stepped aside.
Crag started up. He paused at the third platform. The floor of the
desert was a sea of darkness. Off in the distance the lights of Alpine
Base gleamed, stark against the night. Gotch reached his level and laid
a restraining hand on his arm.
Crag turned and waited. The Colonel's massive form was a black shadow
interposed between him and the lights of Alpine Base.
"This is the Aztec," he said simply.
"So I guessed. And the silver job at Burning Sands?"
"Drone Able," Gotch explained. "The deception was necessary--a part of
the cat and mouse game we've been playing the last couple of decades. We
couldn't take a single chance." Crag remained silent. The Colonel turned
toward the lights of the Base. He had become quiet, reflective. When he
spoke, his voice was soft, almost like a man talking to himself.
"Out there are hundreds of men who have given a large part of their
lives to the dream of space flight. Now we are at the eve of making that
dream live. If we gain the moon, we gain the planets. That's the destiny
of Man. The Aztec is the first step." He turned back and faced Crag.
"This is but one base. There are many others. Beyond them are the
factories, laboratories, colleges, scientists and engineers, right down
to Joe the Riveter. Every one of them has had a part in the dream.
You're another part, Adam, but you happen to have the lead role." He
swiveled around and looked silently at the distant lights. The moment
was solemn. A slight shiver ran through Crag's body.
"You know and I know that the Aztec is a development from the ICBM's
guarding Fortress America. You also know, or have heard, that out in San
Diego the first atom-powered spaceship is nearing completion." He looked
sharply at Crag.
"I've heard," Crag said noncommittally.
Gotch eyed him steadily. "That's the point. So have others. Our space
program is no secret. But we've suspected--feared--that the first stab
at deep space would be made before the atom job was completed. Not
satellites but deep space rockets. That's why the Aztec was pushed
through so fast." He fell silent. Crag waited.
"Well, the worst has happened. The enemy is ready to launch--may have
launched this very night. That's how close it is. Fortunately our gamble
with the Aztec is paying off. We're ready, too, Adam.
"We're going to get that moon. Get it now!" He reached into a pocket and
extracted his pipe, then thought better of lighting it. Crag waited. The
Colonel was in a rare introspective mood, a quiet moment in which he
mentally tied together and weighed his Nation's prospects in the
frightening days ahead. Finally he spoke:
"We put a rocket around the moon, Adam." He smiled faintly, noting
Crag's involuntary start of surprise. "Naturally it was fully
instrumented. There's uranium there--one big load located in the most
inaccessible spot imaginable."
"Arzachel," Crag said simply.
"The south side of Arzachel, to be exact. That's why we didn't pick a
soft touch like Mare Imbrium, in case you've wondered."
"I've wondered."
"Adam," the Colonel hesitated a long moment, "does the name Pickering
mean anything to you?"
"Ken Pickering who--"
"What have you heard?" snapped Gotch. His eyes became sharp drills.
Crag spoke slowly: "Nothing ... for a long time. He just seemed to drop
out of sight after he broke the altitude record in the X-34." He looked
up questioningly.
"Frankly, I've always wondered why he hadn't been selected for this job.
I thought he was a better pilot than I am," he added almost humbly.
Gotch said bluntly: "You're right. He is better." He smiled tolerantly.
"We picked our men for particular jobs," he said finally. "Pickering ...
we hope ... will be in orbit before the Aztec blasts off."
"Satelloid?"
"The first true satelloid," the Colonel agreed. "One that can ride the
fringes of space around the earth. A satelloid with fantastic altitude
and speed. I'm telling you this because he'll be a link in Step One, a
communication and observation link. He won't be up long, of course, but
long enough--we hope."
Silence fell between them. Crag looked past the Colonel's shoulder. All
at once the lights of Alpine Base seemed warm and near, almost personal.
Gotch lifted his eyes skyward, symbolic of his dreams. The light of
distant stars reflected off his brow.
"We don't know whether the Aztec can make it," he said humbly. "We
don't know whether our space-lift system will work, whether the drones
can be monitored down to such a precise point on the moon, or the
dangers of meteorite bombardment. We don't know whether our safeguards
for human life are adequate. We don't know whether the opposition can
stop us....
"We don't know lots of things, Adam. All we know is that we need the
moon. It's a matter of survival of Western Man, his culture, his way of
life, his political integrity. We need the moon to conquer the
planets ... and some day the stars."
His voice became a harsh clang.
"So does the enemy. That's why we have to establish a proprietory
ownership, a claim that the U.N. will recognize. The little nations
represent the balance of power, Adam. But they sway with the political
winds. They are the reeds of power politics ... swaying between the
Sputniks and Explorers, riding with the ebb and flow of power ... always
trying to anticipate the ultimate winner. Right now they're watching to
see where that power lies. The nation that wins the moon will tilt the
balance in its favor. At a critical time, I might add. That's why we
have to protect ourselves every inch of the way."
He tapped his cold pipe moodily against his hand. "We won't be here to
see the end results, of course. That won't be in our time. But we're the
starters. The Aztec is the pioneer ship. And in the future our economy
can use that load of uranium up there."
He smiled faintly at Crag. "When you step through the hatch you've left
earth, perhaps for all time. That's your part in the plan. Step One is
your baby and I have confidence in you." He gripped Crag's arm warmly.
It was the closest he had ever come to showing his feelings toward the
man he was sending into space.
"Come on, let's go."
Crag started upward. Gotch followed more slowly, climbing like a man
bearing a heavy weight.
* * * * *
The Aztec's crew, Max Prochaska, Gordon Nagel and Martin Larkwell, came
aboard the rocket in the last hour before take-off. Gotch escorted them
up the ladder and introduced them to their new Commander.
Prochaska acknowledged the introduction with a cheerful smile.
"Glad to know you, Skipper." His thin warm face said he was glad to be
there.
Gordon Nagel gave a perfunctory handshake, taking in the space cabin
with quick ferret-like head movements.
Martin Larkwell smiled genially, pumping Crag's hand. "I've been looking
forward to this."
Crag said dryly. "We all have." He acknowledged the introductions with
the distinct feeling that he already knew each member of his crew. It
was the odd feeling of meeting old acquaintances after long years of
separation. As part of his indoctrination he had studied the personnel
records of the men he might be so dependent on. Now, seeing them in the
flesh, was merely an act of giving life to those selfsame records. He
studied them with casual eyes while Gotch rambled toward an awkward
farewell.
Max Prochaska, his electronics chief, was a slender man with sparse
brown hair, a thin acquiline nose and pointed jaw. His pale blue eyes,
thin lips and alabaster skin gave him a delicate look--one belied by his
record. His chief asset--if one was to believe the record--was that he
was a genius in electronics.
Gordon Nagel, too, was, thin-faced and pallid skinned. His black hair,
normally long and wavy, had been close-cropped. His eyes were small,
shifting, agate-black, giving Crag the feeling that he was uneasy--an
impression he was to hold. His record had described him as nervous in
manner but his psychograph was smooth. He was an expert in oxygen
systems.
Martin Larkwell, the mechanical maintenance and construction boss, in
many ways appeared the antithesis of his two companions. He was
moon-faced, dark, with short brown hair and a deceptively sleepy look.
His round body was well-muscled, his hands big and square. Crag thought
of a sleek drowsy cat, until he saw his eyes. They were sparkling brown
pools, glittering, moving with some strange inner fire. They were the
eyes of a dreamer ... or a fanatic, he thought. In the cabin's soft
light they glowed, flickered. No, there was nothing sleepy about him, he
decided.
All of the men were short, light, in their early thirties. In contrast
Crag, at 5' 10" and 165 pounds, seemed a veritable giant. A small
physique, he knew, was almost an essential in space, where every ounce
was bought at tremendous added weight in fuel. His own weight had been a
serious strike against him.
Colonel Gotch made one final trip to the space cabin. This time he
brought the _Moon Code Manual_ (stamped TOP SECRET), the crew personnel
records (Crag wondered why) and a newly printed pamphlet titled "Moon
Survival." Crag grinned when he saw it.
"Does it tell us how to get there, too?"
"We'll write that chapter later," Gotch grunted. He shook each man's
hand and gruffly wished them luck before turning abruptly toward the
hatch. He started down the ladder. A moment later his head reappeared.
He looked sharply at Crag and said, "By the way, that twosome at the
Blue Door got it last night."
"You mean...?"
"Burp gun. No finesse. Just sheer desperation. Well, I just wanted to
let you know we weren't altogether crazy."
"I didn't think you were."
The Colonel's lips wrinkled in a curious smile. "No?" He looked at Crag
for a long moment. "Good luck." His head disappeared from view and Crag
heard his footsteps descending the ladder.
Then they were alone, four men alone. Crag turned toward his companions.