At a precise point in space spelled out by the Alpine computers Crag
applied the first braking rockets. He realized that the act had been an
immediate tip-off to the occupants of the other rocket. No matter, he
thought. Sooner or later they had to discover it was the drone they had
destroyed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their headlong flight was
slowed. He nursed the rockets with care. There was no fuel to spare, no
energy to waste, no room for error. Everything had been worked out long
beforehand; he was merely the agent of execution.
The sensation of weight gradually increased. He ordered Larkwell and
Nagel into their seats in strapdown position. He and Prochaska shortly
followed, but he left his shoulder harnessing loose to give his arms the
vital freedom he needed for the intricate maneuvers ahead.
The moon rushed toward them at an appalling rate. Its surface was a
harsh grille work of black and white, a nightmarish scape of pocks and
twisted mountains of rock rimming the flat lunar plains. It was, he
thought, the geometry of a maniac. There was no softness, no blend of
light and shadow, only terrible cleavages between black and white. Yet
there was a beauty that gripped his imagination; the raw, stark beauty
of a nature undefiled by life. No eye had ever seen the canopy of the
heavens from the bleak surface below; no flower had ever wafted in a
lunar breeze.
Prochaska nudged his arm and indicated the scope. Bandit was almost
abreast them. Crag nodded understandingly.
"No more warheads."
"Guess we're just loaded with luck," Prochaska agreed wryly.
They watched ... waited ... mindless of time. Crag felt the tension
building inside him. Occasionally he glanced at the chronometer, itching
for action. The wait seemed interminable. Minutes or hours? He lost
track of time.
All at once his hands and mind were busy with the braking rockets,
dials, meters. First the moon had been a pallid giant in the sky; next
it filled the horizon. The effect was startling. The limb of the moon,
seen as a shallow curved horizon, no longer was smooth. It appeared as a
rugged saw-toothed arc, somehow reminding him of the Devil's Golf Course
in California's Death Valley. It was weird and wonderful, and slightly
terrifying.
Prochaska manned the automatic camera to record the orbital and landing
phases. He spotted the Crater of Ptolemaeus first, near the center-line
of the disc. Crag made a minute correction with the steering rockets.
The enemy rocket followed suit. Prochaska gave a short harsh laugh
without humor.
"Looks like we're piloting them in. Jeepers, you'd think they could do
their own navigation."
"Shows the confidence they have in us," Crag retorted.
They flashed high above Ptolemaeus, a crater ninety miles in diameter
rimmed by walls three thousand feet high. The crater fled by below them.
South lay Alphons; and farther south, Arzachel, with walls ten thousand
feet high rimming its vast depressed interior.
Prochaska observed quietly: "Nice rugged spot. It's going to take some
doing."
"Amen."
"I'm beginning to get that what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling."
"I've had it right along," Crag confided.
They caught only a fleeting look at Arzachel before it rushed into the
background. Crag touched the braking rockets from time to time, gently,
precisely, keeping his eyes moving between the radar altimeter and speed
indicator while the Chief fed him the course data.
The back side of the moon was spinning into view--the side of the moon
never before seen by human eyes. Prochaska whistled softly. A huge
mountain range interlaced with valleys and chasms pushed some thirty
thousand feet into the lunar skies. Long streaks of ochre and brown
marked its sides, the first color they had seen on the moon. Flat
highland plains crested between the peaks were dotted with strange
monolithic structures almost geometrical in their distribution.
Prochaska was shooting the scene with the automatic camera. Crag twisted
around several times to nod reassuringly to Nagel and Larkwell but each
time they were occupied with the side ports, oblivious of his gesture.
To his surprise Nagel's face was rapt, almost dreamy, completely
absorbed by the stark lands below. Larkwell, too, was quiet with wonder.
The jagged mountains fell away to a great sea, larger even than Mare
Imbrium, and like Mare Imbrium, devoid of life. A huge crater rose from
its center, towering over twenty thousand feet. Beyond lay more
mountains. The land between was a wild tangle of rock, a place of
unutterable desolation. Crag was fascinated and depressed at the same
time. The Aztec was closing around the moon in a tight spiral.
The alien landscape drew visibly nearer. He switched his attention
between the braking rockets and instruments, trying to manage a quick
glance at the scope. Prochaska caught his look.
"Bandit's up on us," he confirmed.
Crag uttered a vile epithet and Prochaska grinned. He liked to hear him
growl, taking it as a good sign.
Crag glanced worriedly at the radar altimeter and hit the braking
rockets harder. The quick deceleration gave the impression of added
weight, pushing them hard against their chest harnesses.
He found it difficult to make the precise hand movements required. The
Aztec was dropping with frightening rapidity. They crossed more
mountains, seas, craters, great chasms. Time had become meaningless--had
ceased to exist. The sheer bleakness of the face of the moon gripped his
imagination. He saw it as the supreme challenge, the magnitude of which
took his breath. He was Cortez scanning the land of the Aztecs. More,
for this stark lonely terrain had never felt the stir of life. No
benevolent Maker had created this chaos. It was an inferno without
fire--a hell of a kind never known on earth. It was the handiwork of a
nature on a rampage--a maddened nature whose molding clay had been
molten lava.
He stirred the controls, moved them further, holding hard. The braking
rockets shook the ship, coming through the bulkheads as a faint roar.
The ground came up fast. Still the landscape fled by--fled past for
seeming days.
Prochaska announced wonderingly. "We've cleared the back side. You're on
the landing run, Skipper."
Crag nodded grimly, thinking it was going to be rough. Each second, each
split second had to be considered. There was no margin for error. No
second chance. He checked and re-checked his instruments, juggling speed
against altitude.
Ninety-mile wide Ptolemaeus was coming around again--fast. He caught a
glimpse through the floor port. It was a huge saucer, level at the
bottom, rimmed by low cliffs which looked as though they had been carved
from obsidian. The floor was split by irregular chasms, punctuated by
sharp high pinnacles. It receded and Alphons rushed to meet them. The
Aztec was dropping fast. Too fast? Crag looked worriedly at the radar
altimeter and hit the braking rockets harder. Alphons passed more
slowly. They fled south, a slim needle in the lunar skies.
"Arzachel...." He breathed the name almost reverently.
Prochaska glanced out the side port before hurriedly consulting the
instruments. Thirty thousand feet! He glanced worriedly at Crag. The
ground passed below them at a fantastic speed. They seemed to be
dropping faster. The stark face of the planet hurtled to meet them.
"Fifteen thousand feet," Prochaska half-whispered. Crag nodded. "Twelve
thousand ... ten ... eight...." The Chief continued to chant the
altitude readings in a strained voice. Up until then the face of the
moon had seemed to rush toward the Aztec. All at once it changed. Now it
was the Aztec that rushed across the hostile land--rushing and dropping.
"Three thousand ... two thousand...." They flashed high above a great
cliff which fell away for some ten thousand feet. At its base began the
plain of Arzachel.
Out of the corner of his eye Crag saw that Bandit was leading
them. But higher ... much higher. Now it was needling into the
purple-black--straight up. He gave a quick, automatic instrument check.
The braking rockets were blasting hard. He switched one hand to the
steering rockets.
Zero minute was coming up. Bandit was ahead, but higher. It could, he
thought, be a photo finish. Suddenly he remembered his face plate and
snapped it shut, opening the oxygen valve. The suit grew rigid on his
body and hampered his arms. He cursed softly and looked sideways at
Prochaska. He was having the same difficulty. Crag managed a quick
over-the-shoulder glance at Larkwell and Nagel. Everything seemed okay.
He took a deep breath and applied full deceleration with the braking
jets and simultaneously began manipulating the steering rockets. The
ship vibrated from stem to stern. The forward port moved upward; the
face of the moon swished past and disappeared. Bandit was lost to sight.
The ship trembled, shuddered and gave a violent wrench. Crag was thrown
forward.
The Aztec began letting down, tail first. It was a sickening moment. The
braking rockets astern, heavy with smoke, thundered through the hull.
The smoke blanketed out the ports. The cabin vibrated. He straightened
the nose with the steering rockets, letting the ship fall in a vertical
attitude, tail first. He snapped a glance at the radar altimeter and
punched a button.
A servo mechanism somewhere in the ship started a small motor. A tubular
spidery metal framework was projected out from the tail, extending some
twenty feet before it locked into position. It was a failing device
intended to absorb the energy generated by the landing impact.
Prochaska looked worriedly out the side port. Crag followed his eyes.
Small details on the plain of Arzachel loomed large--pits, cracks, low
ridges of rock. Suddenly the plain was an appalling reality. Rocky
fingers reached to grip them. He twisted his head until he caught sight
of Bandit. It was moving down, tail first, but it was still high in the
sky. Too high, he thought. He took a fast look at the radar altimeter
and punched the full battery of braking rockets again. The force on his
body seemed unbearable. Blood was forced into his head, blurring his
vision. His ears buzzed and his spine seemed to be supporting some
gigantic weight. The pressure eased and the ground began moving up more
slowly. The rockets were blasting steadily.
For a split-second the ship seemed to hang in mid-air followed by a
violent shock. The cabin teetered, then smashed onto the plain, swaying
as the framework projecting from the tail crumpled. The shock drove them
hard into their seats. They sat for a moment before full realization
dawned. They were down--alive!
Crag and Prochaska simultaneously began shucking their safety belts.
Crag was first. He sprang to the side port just in time to see the last
seconds of Bandit's landing. It came down fast, a perpendicular needle
stabbing toward the lunar surface. Flame spewed from its braking
rockets; white smoke enveloped its nose.
Fast ... too fast, he thought. Suddenly the flame licked out. Fuel
error. The thought flashed through his mind. The fuel Bandit had wasted
in space maneuvering to destroy the drone had left it short. The rocket
seemed to hang in the sky for a scant second before it plummeted
straight down, smashing into the stark lunar landscape. The Chief had
reached his side just in time to witness the crash.
"That's all for them," he said. "Can't say I'm sorry."
"Serves 'em damn well right," growled Crag. He became conscious of Nagel
and Larkwell crowding to get a look and obligingly moved to one side
without taking his eyes from the scene. He tried to judge Bandit's
distance.
"Little over two miles," he estimated aloud.
"You can't tell in this vacuum," Prochaska advised. "Your eyes play you
tricks. Wait'll I try the scope." A moment later he turned admiringly
from the instrument.
"Closer to three miles. Pretty good for a green hand."
Crag laughed, a quiet laugh of self-satisfaction, and said, "I could use
a little elbow room. Any volunteers?"
"Liberty call," Prochaska sang out. "All ashore who's going ashore. The
gals are waiting."
"I'm a little tired of this sardine can, myself," Larkwell put in.
"Let's get on our Sunday duds and blow. I'd like to do the town." There
was a murmur of assent. Nagel, who was monitoring the oxygen pressure
gauge, spoke affirmatively. "No leaks."
"Good," Crag said with relief. He took a moment off to feel exultant but
the mood quickly vanished. There was work ahead--sheer drudgery.
"Check suit pressure," he ordered.
They waited a moment longer while they tested pressure, the interphones,
and adjusted to the lack of body weight before Crag moved toward the
hatch. Prochaska prompted them to actuate their temperature controls:
"It's going to be hot out there."
Crag nodded, checked his temperature dial and started to open the hatch.
The lock-lever resisted his efforts for a moment. He tested the dogs
securing the door. Several of them appeared jammed. Panic touched his
mind. He braced his body, moving against one of the lock levers with all
his strength. It gave, then another. He loosened the last lock braced
against the blast of escaping air. The hatch exploded open.
He stood for a moment looking at the ground, some twenty feet below. The
metal framework now crumpled below the tail had done its work. It had
struck, failing, and in doing so had absorbed a large amount of impact
energy which otherwise would have been absorbed by the body of the
rocket with possible damage to the space cabin.
The Aztec's tail fins were buried in what appeared to be a powdery ash.
The rocket was canted slightly but, he thought, not dangerously so.
Larkwell broke out the rope ladder provided for descent and was looking
busy. Now it was his turn to shine. He hooked the ladder over two pegs
and let the other end fall to the ground. He tested it then straightened
up and turned to Crag.
"You may depart, Sire."
Crag grinned and started down the ladder. It was clumsy work. The bulk
and rigidity of his suit made his movements uncertain, difficult. He
descended slowly, testing each step. He hesitated at the last rung,
thinking: _This is it!_ He let his foot dangle above the surface for a
moment before plunging it down into the soft ash mantle, then walked a
few feet, ankle deep in a fine gray powder. First human foot to touch
the moon, he thought. The first human foot ever to step beyond the
world. Yeah, the human race was on the way--led by Adam Philip Crag. He
felt good.
It occurred to him then that he was not the real victor. That honor
belonged to a man 240,000 miles away. Gotch had won the moon. It had
been the opaque-eyed Colonel who had directed the conquest. He, Crag,
was merely a foot soldier. Just one of the troops. All at once he felt
humble.
Prochaska came down next, followed by Nagel. Larkwell was last. They
stood in a half-circle looking at each other, awed by the thing they had
done. No one spoke. They shifted their eyes outward, hungrily over the
plain, marveling at the world they had inherited. It was a bleak,
hostile world encompassed in a bowl whose vast depressed interior
alternately was burned and frozen by turn. To their north the rim of
Arzachel towered ten thousand feet, falling away as it curved over the
horizon to the east and west. The plain to the south was a flat expanse
of gray punctuated by occasional rocky knolls and weird, needle-sharp
pinnacles, some of which towered to awesome heights.
Southeast a long narrow spur of rock rose and crawled over the floor of
the crater for several miles before it dipped again into its ashy bed.
Crag calculated that a beeline to Bandit would just about skirt the
southeast end of the spur. Another rock formation dominated the
middle-expanse of the plain to the south. It rose, curving over the
crater floor like the spinal column of some gigantic lizard--a great
crescent with its horns pointed toward their present position. Prochaska
promptly dubbed it "Backbone Ridge," a name that stuck.
Crag suddenly remembered what he had to do, and coughed meaningfully
into his lip mike. The group fell silent. He faced the distant northern
cliffs and began to speak:
"I, Adam Crag, by the authority vested in me by the Government of the
United States of America, do hereby claim this land, and all the lands
of the moon, as legal territory of the United States of America, to be a
dominion of the United States of America, subject to its Government and
laws."
When he finished, he was quiet for a minute. "For the record, this is
Pickering Field. I think he'd like that," he added. There was a lump in
his throat.
Prochaska said quietly, "Gotch will like it, too. Hadn't we better
record that and transmit it to Alpine?"
"It's already recorded." Crag grinned. "All but the Pickering Field
part. Gotch wrote it out himself."
"Confident bastard." Larkwell smiled. "He had a lot more faith than I
did."
"Especially the way you brought that stovepipe down," Nagel interjected.
There was a moment of startled silence.
Prochaska said coldly. "I hope you do your job as well."
Nagel looked provocatively at him but didn't reply.
Larkwell had been studying the terrain. "Wish Able had made it," he said
wistfully. "I'd like to get started on that airlock. It's going to be a
honey to build."
"Amen." Crag swept his eyes over the ashy surface. "The scientists
figure that falling meteorites may be our biggest hazard."
"Not if we follow the plan of building our airlock in a rill," Larkwell
interjected. "Then the only danger would be from stuff coming straight
down."
"Agreed. But the fact remains that we lost Able. We'll have to chance
living in the Aztec until Drone Baker arrives."
"If it makes it."
"It'll make it," Crag answered with certainty. Their safe landing had
boosted his confidence. They'd land Baker and Charlie, in that order, he
thought. They'd locate a shallow rill; then they'd build an airlock to
protect them against chance meteorites. That's the way they'd do it;
one ... two ... three....
"We've got it whipped," Prochaska observed, but his voice didn't hold
the certainty of his words.
Crag said, "I was wondering if we couldn't assess the danger. It might
not be so great...."
"How?" Prochaska asked curiously.
"No wind, no air, no external forces to disturb the ash mantle, except
for meteorites. Any strike would leave a trace. We might smooth off a
given area and check for hits after a couple of days. That would give
some idea of the danger." He faced Prochaska.
"What do you think?"
"But the ash itself is meteorite dust," he protested.
"We could at least chart the big hits--those large enough to damage the
rocket."
"We'll know if any hit," Larkwell prophesied grimly.
"Maybe not;" Nagel cut in. "Supposing it's pinhole size? The air could
seep out and we wouldn't know it until too late."
Crag said decisively. "That means we'll have to maintain a watch over
the pressure gauge."
"That won't help if it's a big chunk." Prochaska scraped his toe through
the ash. "The possibility's sort of disconcerting."
"Too damned many occupational hazards for me," Larkwell ventured. "I
must have had rocks in my head when I volunteered for this one."
"All brawn and no brain." Crag gave a wry smile. "That's the kind of
fodder that's needed for deep space."
Prochaska said, "We ought to let Gotch know he's just acquired a few
more acres."
"Right." Crag hesitated a moment. "Then we'll check out on Bandit."
"Why?" Larkwell asked.
"There might be some survivors."
"Let them rot," Nagel growled.
"That's for me to decide," Crag said coldly. He stared hard at the
oxygen man. "We're still human."
Nagel snapped, "They're damned murderers."
"That's no reason we should be." Crag turned back toward the ladder.
When he reached it, he paused and looked skyward. The sun was a precise
circle of intolerable white light set amid the ebony of space. The stars
seemed very close.
The space cabin was a vacuum. At Nagel's suggestion they kept pressure
to a minimum to preserve oxygen. When they were out of their suits,
Prochaska got on the radio. He had difficulty raising Alpine Base,
working for several minutes before he got an answering signal. When the
connection was made, Crag moved into Prochaska's place and switched to
his ear insert microphone. He listened to the faint slightly metallic
voice for a moment before he identified it as Gotch's. He thought: _The
Old Man must be living in the radio shack._ He adjusted his headset and
sent a lengthy report.
If Gotch were jubilant over the fruition of his dream, he carefully
concealed it. He congratulated Crag and the crew, speaking in precise
formal terms, and almost immediately launched into a barrage of
questions regarding their next step. The Colonel's reaction nettled him.
Lord, he should be jubilant ... jumping with joy ... waltzing the
telephone gal. Instead he was speaking with a business-as-usual manner.
Gotch left it up to Crag on whether or not to attempt a rescue
expedition.
"But not if it endangers the expedition in any way," he added. He
informed him that Drone Baker had been launched without mishap. "Just
be ready for her," he cautioned. "And again--congratulations,
Commander." There was a pause....
"I think Pickering Field is a fitting name." The voice in the earphones
died away and Crag found himself listening to the static of space. He
pulled the sets off and turned to Nagel.
"How much oxygen would a man need for a round trip to Bandit, assuming a
total distance of seven miles."
"It's not that far," Prochaska reminded.
"There might be detours."
Nagel calculated rapidly. "An extra cylinder would do it."
"Okay, Larkwell and I'll go. You and Prochaska stand by." Crag caught
the surprised look on the Chief's face.
"There might be communication problems," he explained. Privately, he had
decided that no man would be left alone until the mystery of the time
bomb was cleared up.
Prochaska nodded. The arrangement made sense. Nagel appeared pleased
that he didn't have to make the long trek. Larkwell, on the other hand,
seemed glad to have been chosen.