There is no dawn on the moon, no dusk, no atmosphere to catch and spread
the light of the sun. When the lunar night ends--a night two earth weeks
long--the sun simply pops over the horizon, bringing its intolerable
heat. But the sky remains black--black and sprinkled with stars agleam
with a light unknown on earth. At night the temperature is 250 degrees
below zero; by day it is the heat of boiling water. Yet the sun is but
an intense circle of white aloft in a nigrescent sky. It was a world
such as Crag had scarcely dreamed of--alien, hostile, fantastic in its
architecture--a bizarre world spawned by a nature in revolt.
Crag stopped to adjust the temperature control on his suit. He started
to mop his brow before he remembered the helmet. Larkwell saw the
gesture, and behind his thick face plate his lips wrinkled in a grin.
"Go on, scratch it," he challenged.
"This moon's going to take a lot of getting used to." Crag swept his
eyes over the bleak plain. "And they send four men to conquer this."
"It ain't conquered yet," Larkwell spat.
Crag's answer was a sober reflection. "No, it isn't," he said quietly.
He contemplated the soot-filled sky, its magic lanterns, then looked
down again at the plain.
"Let's get moving."
* * * * *
It was dawn--dawn in the sense that the sun had climbed above the
horizon. The landing had been planned for sunup--the line which divided
night from day--to give them the benefit of a two-week day before
another instantaneous onslaught of night.
They moved slowly across the ashy floor of the crater, occasionally
circling small knolls or jagged rock outcroppings. Despite the
cumbersome suits and the burden of the extra oxygen cylinder each
carried, they made good time. Crag led the way with Larkwell close
behind, threading his way toward the spot where the enemy rocket had
fallen from the sky. They had to stop several times to rest and regulate
their temperature controls. Despite the protective garments they were
soon sweating and panting, gasping for breath with the feeling of
suffocation. Crag felt the water trickling down his body in rivulets
and began to itch, a sensation that was almost a pain.
"It's not going to be a picnic," Larkwell complained. His voice sounded
exhausted in the earphones.
Crag grunted without answering. His feet ploughed up little spurts of
dust which fell as quickly as they rose. Like water dropping, he
thought. He wondered how long they would be able to endure the heat.
Could they possibly adapt their bodies to such an environment? What of
the cold of night? The questions bothered him. He tried to visualize
what it would be like to plunge from boiling day to the bitterly cold
night within the space of moments. Would they be able to take it? He
grinned to himself. They'd find out!
At the next halt they looked back at the Aztec.
"We don't seem to be getting anywhere," Larkwell observed. Crag
contemplated the rocket. He was right. The ship seemed almost as large
and clear as ever.
"Your eyes trick you," he said. "It's just another thing we'll have to
get used to." He let his eyes linger on the plain. It was washed with a
brilliant light which even their glare shields didn't diminish. Each
rock, each outcrop cast long black shadows--black silhouettes against
the white ash. There were no grays, no intermediate shades. Everything
was either black or white. His eyes began to ache and he turned them
from the scene. He nodded at Larkwell and resumed his trek. He was
trudging head down when he suddenly stopped. A chasm yawned at his feet.
"Mighty wide," Larkwell observed, coming up.
"Yeah," said Crag, indecisively. The rift was about twenty feet wide,
its bottom lost in black shadows.
Larkwell studied the chasm carefully. "Might be just the rill we need
for an airlock. If it's not too deep," he added. He picked up a boulder
and dropped it over the edge, waiting expectantly. Crag chuckled. The
construction man had forgotten that sound couldn't be transmitted
through a vacuum. Larkwell caught the laugh in his earphones and smiled
weakly.
He said sheepishly, "Something else to learn."
"We've plenty to learn." Crag looked both ways. To the right the chasm
seemed to narrow and, although he wasn't sure, end.
"Let's try it," he suggested. Larkwell nodded agreement. They trudged
along the edge of the fissure, walking slowly to conserve their energy.
The plain became more uneven. Small outcroppings of black glassy rock
punctured the ash, becoming more numerous as they progressed. Occasional
saw-toothed needles pierced the sky. Several times they stopped and
looked back at the Aztec. It was a black cylinder, smaller yet seemingly
close.
Crag's guess was right. The chasm narrowed abruptly and terminated at
the base of a small knoll. Both rockets were now hidden by intervening
rocks. He hesitated before striking out, keeping Backbone Ridge to his
right. The ground became progressively more uneven. They trudged onward
for over a mile before he caught sight of the Aztec again. He paused,
with the feeling something was wrong. Larkwell put it into words.
"Lost."
"Not lost, but off course." Crag took a moment to get his bearings and
then struck out again thinking their oxygen supply couldn't stand many
of these mistakes.
"How you doing, Skipper?"
Crag gave a start before remembering that Prochaska and Nagel were cut
into their intercom.
"Lousy," he told them. He gave a brief run-down.
"Just happened to think that I could help guide you. I'll work you with
the scope," Prochaska said.
"Of course," Crag exclaimed, wondering why they hadn't thought of it
before. One thing was certain: they'd have to start remembering a lot
of things. Thereafter, they checked with Prochaska every few minutes.
The ground constantly changed as they progressed. One moment it was
level, dusty with ash; the next it was broken by low rocky ridges and
interlacing chasms. Minutes extended into seeming hours and they had to
stop for rest from time to time. Crag was leading the way across a small
ravine when Larkwell's voice brought him up short:
"Commander, we're forgetting something."
"What?"
"Radcounters. Mine's whispering a tune I didn't like."
"Not a thing to worry about," Crag assured him. "The raw ores aren't
that potent." Nevertheless he unhooked his counter and studied it.
Larkwell was right. They were on hot ground but the count was low.
"Won't bother us a bit," he affirmed cheerfully.
Larkwell's answer was a grunt. Crag checked the instrument several times
thinking that before long--when they were settled--they would mark off
the boundaries of the lode. Gotch would want that. The count rose
slightly. Once he caught Larkwell nervously consulting his meter.
Clearly the construction boss wasn't too happy over their position. Crag
wanted to tell him he had been reading too many Sunday supplements but
didn't.
Prochaska broke in, "You're getting close." His voice was a faint
whisper over the phones. "Maybe you'd better make a cautious approach."
Crag remembered the fate of Drone Able and silently agreed. Thereafter
he kept his eyes peeled. They climbed a small knoll and saw Bandit. He
abruptly halted, waiting until Larkwell reached his side.
The rocket lay at the base of the slope, which fell away before them. It
was careened at a crazy angle with its base crumpled. A wide cleft
running half way to its nose was visible. Crag studied the rocket
carefully.
"Might still be oxygen in the space cabin," he ventured finally. "The
break in the hull might not reach that far."
"It does," Larkwell corrected. His eyes, trained in construction work,
had noted small cracks in the metal extending up alongside the hatch.
"No survivors in there," he grunted.
Crag said thoughtfully: "Might be, if they had on their pressure suits.
And they would have," he added.
He hesitated before striking across the clearing, then began moving down
the slope. Larkwell followed slowly. As he neared the rocket Crag saw
that it lacked any type of failing device to absorb the landing impact.
That, at least, had been one secret kept, he thought. He was wondering
how to get into the space cabin when Larkwell solved the problem. He
drew a thin hemp line from a leg pocket and began uncoiling it. Crag
smiled approval.
"Never without one in the construction business," he explained. He
studied Bandit. "Maybe I can hook it over the top of that busted tail
fin, then work my way up the break in the hull."
"Let me try," Crag offered. The climb looked hazardous.
"This is my province." Larkwell snorted. He ran his eye over the ship
before casting the line. He looked surprised when it shot high above the
intended target point.
"Keep forgetting the low gravity," he apologized. He tried again. On the
third throw he hooked the line over the torn tailfin. He rubbed his
hands against his suit then started upward, climbing clumsily, each
movement exaggerated by the bulky suit. He progressed slowly, testing
each step. Crag held his breath. Larkwell gripped the line with his body
swung outward, his feet planted against the vertical metal, reminding
Crag of a human fly. He stopped to rest just below the level of the
space cabin.
"Thought a man was supposed to be able to jump thirty feet on the moon,"
he panted.
"You can if you peel those duds off," Crag replied cheerfully. He ran
his eye over the break noting the splintered metal. "Be careful of your
suit."
Larkwell didn't answer. He was busy again trying to pull his body
upward, using the break in the hull to obtain finger grips. Only the
moon's low gravity allowed him to perform what looked like an impossible
task. He finally reached a point alongside the hatch and paused,
breathing heavily. He rested a moment, then carefully inserted his hand
into the break in the hull. After a moment he withdrew it, and fumbled
in his leg pocket withdrawing a switchblade knife.
"Got to cut through the lining," he explained. He worked the knife
around inside the break for several minutes, then closed the blade and
reinserted his hand, feeling around until he located the lockbar.
He tugged. It didn't give. He braced his body and exerted all of his
strength. This time it moved. He rested a moment then turned his
attention to the remaining doglocks. In short time he had the hatch
open. Carefully, then, he pulled his body across to the black rectangle
and disappeared inside.
"See anything?" Crag shifted his feet restlessly.
"Dead men." Larkwell's voice sounded relieved over the phones. "Smashed
face plates." There was a long moment of silence. Crag waited
impatiently.
"Just a second," he finally reported. "Looks like a live one." There was
another interval of silence while Crag stewed. Finally he appeared in
the opening with a hemp ladder.
"Knew they had to have some way of getting out of this trap," he
announced triumphantly. He knelt and secured one end to the hatch
combing and let the other end drop to the ground.
Crag climbed to meet him. Larkwell extended a hand and helped him
through the hatch. One glance at the interior of the cabin told him that
any life left was little short of a miracle. The man in the pilot's seat
lay with his faceplate smashed against the instrument panel. The top of
his fiberglass helmet had shattered and the top of his head was a bloody
mess. A second crewman was sprawled over the communication console with
his face smashed into the radarscope. His suit had been ripped from
shoulder to waist and one leg was twisted at a crazy angle. Crag turned
his eyes away.
"Here," Larkwell grunted. He was bent over the third and last crewman,
who had been strapped in a bucket seat immediately behind the pilot.
Crag moved to his side and looked down at the recumbent figure. The
man's suit seemed to have withstood the terrible impact. His helmet
looked intact, and his faceplate was clouded.
Prochaska nodded affirmatively. "Breathing," he said.
Crag knelt and checked the unconscious man as best he could before
finally getting back to his feet.
"It's going to be a helluva job getting him back."
Larkwell's eyes opened with surprise. "You mean we're going to lug that
bastard back to the Aztec?"
"We are."
Larkwell didn't reply. Crag loosened the unconscious man from his
harnessing. Larkwell watched for a while before stooping to help. When
the last straps were free they pulled him close to the edge of the hatch
opening. Crag made a mental inventory of the cabin while Larkwell
unscrewed two metal strips from a bulkhead and laced straps from the
safety harnessing between them, making a crude stretcher.
Crag opened a narrow panel built into the rear bulkhead and
involuntarily whistled into his lip mike. It contained two
short-barreled automatic rifles and a supply of ammunition. Larkwell
eyed the arms speculatively.
"Looks like they expected good hunting," he observed.
"Yeah," Crag grimly agreed. He slammed the metal panel shut and looked
distastefully at the unconscious man. "I've a damned good notion to
leave him here."
"That's what I was thinking."
Crag debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're elected
as angels of mercy. Well, let's go."
"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss spat. He
looped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled him to the
brink of the opening.
"Ought to shove him out and let him bounce a while," he growled.
Crag didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metal
stanchion and signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through the
hatch. Crag let the line out slowly until it became slack. Larkwell
straightened up and leaned against the hatch combing with a foolish look
on his face. Crag took one look at his gaping expression.
"Oxygen," he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extra
cylinder from his belt and hooked it into Larkwell's suit, turning the
valve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatch
combing before Crag managed to pull him to safety.
Within moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quickly
checked his own oxygen. It was low. Too low. The time they had lost
taking the wrong route ... the time taken to open Bandit's hatch ... had
upset Nagel's oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember in
the future. He switched cylinders, then made a rapid calculation. It was
evident they couldn't carry the injured man back with the amount of
oxygen remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem to
Nagel.
"Try one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit."
"No go. I've already looked them over." He kicked the problem around in
his mind.
"Here's the routine," he told him. "You start out to meet us with a
couple of extra cylinders. We'll take along a couple of Bandit's spares
to last this critter until you can modify the valves on his suit to fit
our equipment. Prochaska can guide the works. Okay?"
"Roger," Prochaska cut in. Nagel gave an affirmative grunt.
Crag lowered two of Bandit's cylinders and the stretcher to the floor of
the crater, then took a last look around the cabin. Gotch, he knew,
would ask him a thousand technical questions regarding the rocket's
construction, equipment, and provisioning. He filed the mental pictures
away for later analysis and turned to Larkwell.
"Let's go." They descended to the plain and rolled the unconscious
crewman onto the stretcher. Crag grunted as he hoisted his end. It
wasn't going to be easy.
The return trip proved a nightmare. Despite the moon's low surface
gravity--one-sixth that of earth--the stretcher seemed an intolerable
weight pulling at their arms. They trudged slowly toward the Aztec with
Crag in the lead, their feet kicking up little fountains of dust.
Before they had gone half a mile, they were sweating profusely and their
arms and shoulders ached under their burden. Larkwell walked silently,
steadily, but his breath was becoming a hoarse pant in Crag's earphones.
The thought came to Crag that they wouldn't make it if, by any chance,
Nagel failed to meet them. But he can't fail--not with Prochaska guiding
them, he thought.
They reached the end of the rill and stopped to rest. Crag checked his
oxygen meter. Not good. Not good at all, but he didn't say anything to
Larkwell. The construction boss swung his eyes morosely over the plain
and cursed.
"Nine planets and thirty-one satellites in the Solar System and we had
to pick this dog," he grumbled. "Gotch must be near-sighted."
Crag sighed and picked up his end of the stretcher. When Larkwell had
followed suit they resumed their trek. They were moving around the base
of a small knoll when Larkwell's foot struck a pothole in the ash and he
stumbled. He dropped the end of the stretcher in trying to regain his
balance. It struck hard against the ground, transmitting the jolt to
Crag's aching shoulders. He lowered his end of the stretcher, fearful
the plow had damaged the injured man's helmet. Larkwell watched
unsympathetically while he examined it.
"Won't make much difference," he said.
Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
"Yeah, carrying Lucifer."
The helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. They
hoisted the stretcher and resumed their slow trek toward the Aztec.
Crag's body itched from perspiration. His face was hot, flushed and his
heart thudded in his ears. Larkwell's breathing became a harsh rasp in
the interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Crag
thought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meter
several times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears into
words.
"We'd better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," he
growled. "We're not going to make it this way."
"Nagel should reach us soon."
"Soon won't be soon enough."
"Nagel! Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
"Moving right along." The oxygen man's voice was a flat imperturbed
twang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm was
maddening. But it was their necks that were in danger. He repressed his
anger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemy
crewman. If he lived?
In short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point of
telling him to shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He was
moving slowly, stooped under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders.
He appeared somewhat like an ungainly robot, moving with mechanical
steps--the movements of a machine rather than a man. Crag kept his eyes
on him. Nagel never faltered, never changed pace. His figure grew
steadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray ash. Crag
suddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked the
strength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added to
his despair.
They met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash and
squirmed to straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure in
the stretcher, then at Crag.
"Doesn't make much sense to me," he said critically. "Where are we going
to get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?"
"That's my worry," Crag snapped shortly.
"Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen man."
Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was none. Nagel was merely
stating a fact--an honest worry. His temper was subsiding when Larkwell
spoke.
"He's right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill.
Hell, we've got worries enough without...."
"Knock it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence during
which the others looked defiantly at him.
"Stop the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He felt on the
verge of an explosion, wanted to lash out. Take it easy, he told
himself.
With fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier.
Prochaska was waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to the
safety of the space cabin. When it was pressurized they removed their
suits and Crag began to strip the heavy space garments from the injured
man's body. He finished and stepped back, letting him lie on the deck.
They stood in a tight half-circle, silently studying the inert figure.
It was that of an extremely short man, about five feet, Crag judged, and
thin. A thinness without emaciation. His face was pale, haggard and,
like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He appeared in his
late thirties or early forties but Crag surmised he was much younger.
His chest rose and fell irregularly and his breathing was harsh. Crag
knelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow, fast.
"I don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries ...
or just a bad concussion."
"To hell with him," spat Larkwell.
Prochaska said, "He'll either live or die. In either case there's not
much we can do about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact.
Crag nodded agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding over
the possible complications of having an enemy in their midst when his
nostrils caught a familiar whiff. He turned, startled. The Chief was
holding a pot of coffee.
"I did smuggle one small helping," he confessed.
Crag looked thoughtfully at the pot. "I should cite you for a
court-martial. However ..." He reached for the cup the Chief was
extending.
They drank the coffee slowly, savoring each drop, while Larkwell
outlined their next step. It was one Crag had been worrying about.
"As you know, the plans call for living in the Aztec until we can get a
sheltered airlock into operation," Larkwell explained. "To do that we
gotta lower this baby to the horizontal so I can loosen the afterburner
section and clear out the gunk. Then we can get the prime airlock
installed and working. That should give us ample quarters until we can
build the permanent lock--maybe in that rill we passed."
"We got to rush that," Nagel cut in. "Right now we lose total cabin
pressure every time we stir out of this trap. We can't keep it up for
long."
Crag nodded. Nagel was right. The airlock had to be the first order of
business. The plans called for just such a move and, accordingly, the
rocket had been designed with such a conversion in mind. Only it had
been planned as a short-term stopgap--one to be used only until a
below-surface airlock could be constructed. Now that Drone Able had been
lost--
"Golly, what'll we do with all the room?" Prochaska broke in humorously.
He flicked his eyes around the cabin. "Just imagine, we'll be able to
sleep stretched out instead of doubled up in a bucket seat."
Larkwell took up the conversation and they listened while he outlined
the step-by-step procedure. It was his show and they gave him full
stage. He suggested they might be able to use one of Aztec's now useless
servo motors in the task. When he finished, Crag glanced down at the
Bandit crewman. Pale blue eyes stared back at him. Ice-blue, calm, yet
tinged with mockery. They exchanged a long look.
"Feel better?" Crag finally asked, wondering if by any chance he spoke
English.
"Yes, thank you." The voice held the barest suggestion of an accent.
"We brought you to our ship ..." Crag stopped, wondering how to proceed.
After all the man was an enemy. A dangerous one at that.
"So I see." The voice was laconic. "Why?"
"We're human," snapped Crag brutally. The pale blue eyes regarded him
intently.
"I'm Adam Crag, Commander," he added. The Bandit crewman tried to push
himself up on his elbow. His face blanched and he fell back.
"I seem to be a trifle weak," he apologized. He looked at the circle of
faces before his eyes settled back on Crag. "My name is Richter. Otto
Richter."
Prochaska said, "That's a German name."
"I am German."
"On an Iron Curtain rocket?" Nagel asked sarcastically. Richter gave the
oxygen man a long cool look.
"That seems to be the case," he said finally. The group fell silent. It
was Crag's move. He hesitated. When he spoke his tone was decisive.
"We're stuck with you. For the time being you may regard yourself as
confined. You will not be allowed any freedom ... until we decide what
to do with you."
"I understand."
"As soon as we modify the valves on your suit to fit our cylinders we're
going to move you outside." He instructed Nagel to get busy on the
valves, then turned to Larkwell.
"Let's get along with lowering this baby."