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.
Gotch was the man who had placed him here. But the responsibility was
all his. Gotch! All he gave a damn about was the moon--a chunk of real
estate scorned by its Maker. Crag bit his lip 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
Prochaska 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 Prochaska 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 mirrored in his face, a
naked, horrible dread, during the recent emergency. No ... he wasn't the
saboteur type. Larkwell, maybe. Perhaps Prochaska. 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 Prochaska, 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 lip 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 Prochaska. 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 on 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.
It came slowly, widely spaced, as if Gotch realized Crag's limitations
in handling the intricate cipher system evolved especially for this one
operation. Learning it had caused him many a sleepless night. He copied
the message letter by letter, his understanding blanked by the effort
to decipher it. He finished, then quickly read the two scant lines:
"_Blank channel to Alp unless survival need._"
He studied the message for a long moment. Gotch was telling him not to
contact Alpine Base unless it were a life or death matter. Not that
everything connected with the operation wasn't a life or death matter,
he thought grimly. He decided the message was connected with the
presence of the rocket now riding astern and to one side of the Aztec
and her drone. He guessed the Moon Code had been used to prevent
possible pickup by the intruder rather than any secrecy involving his
own crew.
He quietly passed the information to Prochaska. The Chief listened,
nodding, his eyes going to the analog.
According to his computations, the enemy rocket--Prochaska had dubbed it
Bandit--would pass abeam of Drone Able slightly after they entered the
moon's gravitational field, about 24,000 miles above the planet's
surface. Then what? He pursed his lips vexedly. Bandit was a factor that
had to be considered, but just how he didn't know. One thing was
certain. The East knew about the load of uranium in Crater Arzachel.
That, then, was the destination of the other rocket. Among the many X
unknowns he had to solve, a new X had been added; the rocket from behind
the Iron Curtain. Something told him this would be the biggest X of all.