The communicator came to life with data on Pickering. The satelloid was
moving higher, faster than the Aztec, riding the rim of the exosphere
where the atmosphere is indistinguishable from absolute space. Crag felt
thankful he hadn't been tabbed for the job. The satelloid was a fragile
thing compared to the Aztec--a moth compared to a hawk. It was a
relative handful of light metals and delicate electronic components, yet
it moved at frightful speeds over the course the armchair astronauts had
dubbed "Sputnik Avenue." It was a piloted vehicle, a mite with small
stubby wings to enable it to glide through the air ocean to safe
sanctuary after orbiting the earth. Pickering would be crouched in its
scant belly, a space hardly larger than his body, cramped in a pressure
suit that made movement all but impossible. His smallest misjudgment
would spell instant death. Crag marveled at Pickering's audacity.
Clearly he had the roughest mission. While he thought about it, he kept
one part of his mind centered on the communicator absorbing the data on
the satelloid's position and speed.
The Northern tip of Africa came up fast. The Dark Continent of history
seen from the borders of space was a yellow-green splotch hemmed by
blue. The satelloid was still beyond the Aztec's radar range but a data
link analog painted in the relationship between the two space vehicles.
The instrument's automatic grid measured the distance between them in
hundreds of miles. Pickering, aloft before them, had fled into the east
and already was beginning to overtake them from the west. The ships were
seen on the analog as two pips, two mites aloft in the air ocean. Crag
marveled at the satelloid's tremendous speed. It was a ray of metal
flashing along the fringes of space, a rapier coming out of the west.
The Middle East passed under them, receding, a mass of yellow-green and
occasional smoke-blue splotches. The earth was a giant curvature, not
yet an orb, passing into the shadow of night. It was a night of
fantastic shortness, broken by daylight over the Pacific. The ocean was
an incredible blue, blue-black he decided. The harsh sound of the
communicator came to life. Someone wanted a confab with Crag. A private
confab. Prochaska wrinkled his brow questioningly. Crag switched to his
ear insert phone and acknowledged.
"A moment," a voice said. He waited.
"Commander, we've bad news for you." It was Gotch's voice, a rasp coming
over a great distance.
"The S-two reports a rocket being tracked by radar. ComSoPac's picked it
up. It's on intercept course."
Crag's thoughts raced. The S-two was the satelloid's code name. "Any
idea what kind?"
"Probably a sub-launched missile--riding a beam right to you. Or the
drone," he added. He was silent for a second. "Well, we sort of expected
this might happen, Commander. It's a tough complication."
A helluva lot of good that does, Crag thought. What next? Another set of
pilots, more indoctrination, new rockets, another zero hour. Gotch would
win the moon if he had to use the whole Air Force. He said, "Well, it's
been a nice trip, so far."
"Get Prochaska on the scope."
"He's on and ... hold it." The Chief was making motions toward the
scope. "No, it's the satelloid. He's--"
Gotch broke in with more data. Then it was there.
"He's got it," Crag announced. Gotch was silent. He watched the analog.
All three pips were visible. The satelloid was still above them, rushing
in, fast. The interceptor was lower to the northwest, cutting into their
path. He thought it was the Drone Able story all over again. Only this
time it wasn't a supply rocket. It was a warhead, a situation they
couldn't control.
_Couldn't control? Or could they?_ He debated the question, then quickly
briefed Prochaska and cut him in on the com circuit.
"We can use Drone Able as an intercept," he told Gotch.
"No!" The word came explosively.
Crag snapped, "Drone Able won't be a damn bit of good without the
Aztec."
"No, this is ground control, Commander." Gotch abruptly cut off. Crag
cursed.
"Calling Step One.... Calling Step One. S-two calling Step One. Are you
receiving? Over." The voice came faint over the communicator, rising and
falling.
"Step One," Crag said, adjusting his lip mike. He acknowledged the code
call while his mind registered the fact it wasn't Alpine Base. There was
a burst of static. He waited a moment, puzzled.
"S-two calling...."
Pickering! He had been slow in recognizing the satelloid's code call.
The voice faded--was lost. His thought raced. Pickering was up there in
the satelloid moving higher, faster than the Aztec, hurtling along the
rim of space in a great circle around the earth. The stubby-winged
rocket ship was a minute particle in infinity, yet it represented a part
in the great adventure. It was the hand of Michael Gotch reaching toward
them. For the instant, the knowledge gave him a ray of hope--hope as
quickly dashed. The S-two was just a high-speed observation and relay
platform; a manned vehicle traveling the communication orbit established
by the Army's earlier Explorer missiles. He turned back to Prochaska and
sketched in his plan of using Drone Able as an intercept.
"Could be." The Chief bit his lip reflectively. "We could control her
through her steering rockets, but we'd have to be plenty sharp. We'd
only get one crack."
"Chances are the intercept is working on a proximity fuse," Crag
reasoned. "All we'd have to do is work the drone into its flight path.
We could use our own steering rockets to give us a bigger margin of
safety."
"What would the loss of Able mean?"
Crag shrugged. "I'm more concerned with what the loss of the Aztec would
mean."
"Might work." The Chief looked sharply at him. "What does Alpine say?"
"They say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was much
nearer. So was the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for an
eye-witness report, he thought sourly. Probably got an automatic camera
so Gotch can watch the show. He looked quizzically at Prochaska. The
Chief wore a frozen mask. He got back on the communicator and repeated
his request. When he finished, there was a dead silence in the void.
The Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully at
Prochaska. Last time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited to
leave the Air Force. But Gotch had taken him despite that. He glanced
over his shoulder trying to formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back in
his seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog, he thought. He doesn't know what he's
in for. He twisted his head further. Nagel watched him with a narrow
look. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind and turned back to the
analog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across the grid.
The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid was
dropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too. Much nearer. Prochaska
watched the scene on his radarscope.
"She's coming fast," he murmured. His face had paled.
"Too fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine.
Gotch came on immediately.
Crag said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept.
It's the only chance."
"Commander, I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy,
biting.
"Ground has no control over this situation," Crag snapped angrily.
"I said ground control, Commander. That's final."
"I'm using Drone Able."
"Commander Crag, you'll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Gotch
raged. "Don't move that Drone."
For a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just now he'd like to
be guaranteed the chance to clear the heads at Alpine Base. It sounded
good--real good. There was another burst of static. Pickering's voice
came in--louder, clearer, a snap through the ether.
"Don't sacrifice the drone, Commander!"
"Do you know a better way?"
Pickering's voice dropped to a laconic drawl.
"Reckon so."
Crag glanced at the analog and gave a visible start. The satelloid was
lower, moving in faster along a course which would take it obliquely
through the space path being traversed by the Aztec. If there was such a
thing as a wake in space, that's where the satelloid would chop through,
cutting down toward the intercept. He's using his power, he thought, the
scant amount of fuel he would need for landing. But if he used it up....
He slashed the thought off and swung to the communicator.
"Step One to S-two ... Step One to S-two ..."
"S-two." Pickering came in immediately.
Crag barked, "You can't--"
"That's my job," Pickering cut in. "You gotta get that bucket to the
moon." Crag looked thoughtfully at the communicator.
"Okay," he said finally. "Thanks, fellow."
"Don't mention it. The Air Force is always ready to serve," Pickering
said. "Adios." He cut off.
Crag stared at the analog, biting his lip, feeling the emotion surge
inside him. It grew to a tumult.
"Skipper!" Prochaska's voice was startled. "For God's sake ... look!"
Crag swung his eyes to the scope. The blip representing Pickering had
cut their flight path, slicing obliquely through their wake. At its
tremendous speed only the almost total absence of air molecules kept the
satelloid from turning into a blazing torch. Down ... down ... plunging
to meet the death roaring up from the Pacific. They followed it
silently. A brief flare showed on the scope. They looked at the screen
for a long moment.
"He was a brave man," Prochaska said simply.
"A pile of guts." Crag got on the communicator. Gotch listened. When he
had finished, Gotch said:
"After this, Commander, follow ground orders. You damned near fouled up
the works. I don't want to see that happen again."
"Yes, Sir, but I couldn't have expected that move."
"What do you think Pickering was up there for?" Gotch asked softly. "He
knew what he was doing. That was his job. Just like the couple that got
bumped at the Blue Door. It's tough, Commander, but some people have to
die. A lot have, already, and there'll be a lot more."
He added brusquely, "You'll get your chance." The communicator was
silent for a moment. "Well, carry on."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Crag said. He glanced over his shoulder.
Larkwell was leaning over in his seat, twisting his body to see out the
side port. His face was filled with the wonder of space. Nagel didn't
stir. His eyes were big saucers in his white, thin face. Crag half
expected to see his lips quiver, and wondered briefly at the courage it
must have taken for him to volunteer. He didn't seem at all like the
hero type. Still, look at Napoleon. You could never tell what a man had
until the chips were down. Well, the chips _were_ down. Nagel better
have it. He turned reflectively back to the forward port thinking that
the next two days would be humdrum. Nothing would ever seem tough again.
Not after what they had just been through.
Prochaska fell into the routine of calling out altitude and speed. Crag
listened with one part of his mind occupied with Pickering's sacrifice.
Would he have had the courage to drive the satelloid into the warhead?
Did it take more guts to do that than to double for a man slated to be
murdered? He mulled the questions. Plainly, Step One was jammed with
heroes.
"Altitude, 1,000 miles, speed, 22,300." Prochaska whispered the words,
awe in his voice. They looked at each other wordlessly.
"We've made it," Crag exulted. "We're on that old moon trajectory." The
Chiefs face reflected his wonder. Crag studied his instruments. Speed
slightly over 22,300 miles per hour. The radar altimeter showed the
Aztec slightly more than one thousand miles above the earth's surface.
He hesitated, then cut off the third stage engine. The fuel gauge
indicated a bare few gallons left. This small amount, he knew,
represented error in the precise computations of escape. Well, the extra
weight was negligible. At the same time, they couldn't afford added
acceleration. He became aware that the last vestige of weight had
vanished. He moved his hand. No effort. No effort at all. Space, he
thought, the first successful manned space ship.
Elation swept him. He, Adam Crag, was in space. Not just the top of the
atmosphere but absolute space--the big vacuum that surrounded the world.
This had been the aim ... the dream ... the goal. And so quick!
He flicked his mind back. It seemed almost no time at all since the
Germans had electrified the world with the V-2, a primitive rocket that
scarcely reached seventy miles above the earth, creeping at a mere 3,000
miles per hour.
The Americans had strapped a second stage to the German prototype,
creating the two-stage V-2-Wac Corporal and sending it 250 miles into
the tall blue at speeds better than 5,000 miles per hour. It had been a
battle even then, he thought, remembering the dark day the Russians beat
the West with Sputnik I ... seemingly demolished it with Sputnik
II--until the U. S. Army came through with Explorer I. That had been the
real beginning. IRBM's and ICBM's had been born. Missiles and
counter-missiles. Dogs, monkeys and mice had ridden the fringes of
space. But never man.
A deep sense of satisfaction flooded him. The Aztec had been the first.
The Aztec under Commander Adam Crag. The full sense of the
accomplishment was just beginning to strike him. We've beaten the enemy,
he thought. We've won. It had been a grim battle waged on a
technological front; a battle between nations in which, ironically, each
victory by either side took mankind a step nearer emancipation from the
world. Man could look forward now, to a bright shiny path leading to the
stars. This was the final step. The Big Step. The step that would tie
together two worlds. In a few short days the Aztec would reach her
lonely destination, Arzachel, a bleak spot in the universe. Adam Crag,
the Man in the Moon. He hoped. He turned toward the others, trying to
wipe the smug look from his face.
The oddity of weightlessness was totally unlike anything he had expected
despite the fact its symptoms had been carefully explained during the
indoctrination program. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, yet he
wasn't. He felt no sense of pressure against the seat, or against
anything else, for that matter. It was, he thought, like sitting on air,
as light as a mote of dust drifting in a breeze. Sure, he'd experienced
weightlessness before, when pushing a research stratojet through a
high-speed trajectory to counter the pull of gravity, for example. But
those occasions had lasted only brief moments. He moved his hand
experimentally upward--a move that ended like the strike of a snake.
Yeah, it was going to take some doing to learn control of his movements.
He looked at Prochaska. The Chief was feeding data to Alpine Base. He
finished and grinned broadly at Crag. His eyes were elated.
"Sort of startling, isn't it?"
"Amen," Crag agreed. "I'm almost afraid to loosen my harnessing.
"Alpine says we're right on the button--schedule, course and speed.
There's a gal operator on now."
"That's good. That means we're back to routine." Crag loosened his
harnesses and twisted around in his seat. Larkwell was moving his hands
experimentally. He saw Crag and grinned foolishly. Nagel looked ill. His
face was pinched, bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed. He caught Crag's look
and nodded, without expression.
"Pretty rough," Crag said sympathetically. His voice, in the new-born
silence, possessed a curious muffled effect. "We're past the worst."
Nagel's lips twisted derisively. "Yeah?"
The querulous tone grated Crag and he turned back to the controls.
_Every minor irritant will assume major proportions._ That's what Doc
Weldon had warned. Well, damnit, he wouldn't let Nagel get him down.
Besides, what was his gripe? They were all in the same boat. He turned
to the instrument console, checking the myriad of dials, gauges and
scopes. Everything seemed normal, if there was such a thing as normalcy
in space. He said reflectively, speaking to no one in particular:
"Maybe I should have been more truthful with the Colonel before taking
on this damned job of moon pilot. There's something I didn't tell him."
"What?" Prochaska's face was startled.
"I've never been to the moon before."