"You're in trouble." Gotch spoke like a man carefully choosing his
words. "Intelligence informs us that another rocket's been fired from
east of the Caspian. BuNav's got a track on it."
Crag waited.
"There are two possibilities," Gotch continued. "The first and most
logical assumption is that it's manned. We surmise that from the fact
that their first manned rocket was successful--that is, as far as
reaching the moon is concerned. The assumption is further borne out by
its trajectory and rate of acceleration." His voice fell off.
"And the second possibility?" Crag prompted.
"Warhead," Gotch said succinctly. "Intelligence informs us that the
enemy is prepared to blow Arzachel off the face of the moon if they fail
to take it over. And they have failed--so far." Crag tossed the idea
around in his mind.
He said fretfully, "I doubt if they could put a warhead down on
Arzachel. That takes some doing. Hell, it's tough enough to monitor one
in from here, let alone smack from earth."
"I think you're right, but they can try." Gotch's voice became brisk.
"Here's the dope as we see it. We think the rocket contains a landing
party for the purpose of establishing a moon base. In Arzachel,
naturally, because that's where the lode is."
"More to the point, you expect an attack on Pickering Base," Crag
interjected.
"Well, yes, I think that is a reasonable assumption...."
Crag weighed the information. Gotch was probably right. A nuclear
explosion on the moon would be detected on earth. That was the dangerous
course--the shot that could usher in World War III and perhaps a new
cave era.
Attack by a landing party seemed more logical. They batted ideas back
and forth. The Colonel suggested that just before the landing phase of
Red Dog--the code name assigned the new rocket--Crag post armed guards
at some point covering the Aztec.
"Might as well get some use out of Bandit's automatic weapons," Gotch
dryly concluded.
Crag disagreed. He didn't think it likely that any attack would take the
form of a simple armed assault. "That would give us time to get off a
message," he argued. "They can't afford that."
Gotch pointed out that neither could they launch a missile while still
in space. "A homing weapon couldn't differentiate between Aztec, Baker
and Bandit," he said.
"But they'd still have to have some sure fire quick-kill method," Crag
insisted.
"You may be right. Have you a better plan?"
Crag did, and outlined it in some detail. Gotch listened without comment
until he had finished.
"Could work," he said finally. "However, it's going to shoot your
schedule, even if you could do it."
"Why can't we?"
"You're not supermen, Commander," he said tersely. "The psychiatrists
here inform us that your crew--as individuals--should be near the
breaking point. We know the cumulative strain. To be truthful with you,
we've been getting gray hair over that prospect."
"Nuts to the psychiatrists," Crag declared with a certainty he didn't
feel. "Men don't break when their survival depends on their sanity."
"No?" The single word came across the void, soft and low.
"We can do it," Crag persisted.
"All right, I agree with the plan. I think you're wrong but you're the
Commander in the field." His voice was flat. "Good luck." He cut off
abruptly.
Crag looked at the silent panel for a moment. Another problem, another
solution required. Maybe Gotch was right. Maybe they'd all wind up as
candidates for the laughing academy--if they lived long enough. The
thought didn't cheer him. Well, he'd better get moving. There was a lot
to be done. He looked up and saw the question in Prochaska's eyes. Might
as well tell him, he thought.
He repeated the information Gotch had given, together with his plan.
Prochaska listened quietly, nodding from time to time. When he finished,
they discussed the pros and cons of Crag's proposed course of action.
Prochaska thought it would work. In the end they decided to pursue the
plan without telling the others the full story. It might be the breaking
point, especially for Nagel, and they would be needing a good oxygen man
in the coming days. Crag got on the interphone and called Larkwell, who
was working in the tail section with the others.
"Judging from what you've seen of Bandit, how long would it take to make
it livable as crew quarters?"
"Why?" he asked querulously.
"I haven't time to go into that now," Crag said evenly. "Just give me
your best estimate."
"You can't make it livable. It's hot."
"Not that hot. You've just got the radiation creeps. Let's have the
estimate."
Larkwell considered a moment. "There's quite a weld job on the hull,
assuming we could get the necessary patch metal from Bandit. We'd have
to haul one helluva lot of gear across that damned desert--"
"How long?" Crag cut in.
"Well, three days, at least. But that's a minimum figure."
"That's the figure you'll have to meet," Crag promised grimly. "Start
now. Use Nagel and Richter. Load up the gear you'll need and get in a
trip before chow."
"Now?" Larkwell's voice was incredulous. "What about winding up this job
first? The airlock is damned important."
"Drop it," Crag said briefly. There was silence at the other end of the
interphone.
"Okay," the construction boss grumbled finally.
Crag suggested that Prochaska make the first trip with them to look over
Bandit's electronic gear. He would need to know what repairs and
modifications would be necessary to make it usable. The Chief was
delighted. It would mark the first time he'd been out of the space cabin
since the day of their landing.
* * * * *
Crag watched them leave through the port. It was impossible to tell the
crew members apart in their bulky garments. The extra oxygen and the
tools Larkwell had selected gave them an odd shambling gait, despite the
low gravity. They plodded in single file, winding slowly across the
plain. The thought struck him that they resembled grotesque life forms
from some alien planet. For just a moment he felt sorry, and a trifle
guilty, over assigning Nagel to the trip. The oxygen man was already in
a state of perpetual fatigue. Still, he couldn't allow anyone the luxury
of rest. Work was in the cards--grueling, slavish toil if they were to
survive.
It struck Crag that this was a moment of great risk. Of the four figures
plodding toward Bandit, one was an enemy ... one a saboteur. Yet, what
could either accomplish by striking now? Nothing! _Not while I live_, he
thought. Strangely enough, Richter bothered him more than the saboteur.
There was a quality about the man he couldn't decipher, an armor he
couldn't penetrate. It occurred to him that, outwardly at least, Richter
was much like Prochaska--quiet, calm, steady. He performed the tasks
assigned him without question ... evinced no hostility, no resentment.
He was seemingly oblivious to Nagel's barbs and Larkwell's occasional
surly rebuffs. On the face of the record he was an asset--a work horse
who performed far more labor than Nagel.
He decided he couldn't write the German off as a factor to be
continually weighed--weighed and watched. He was no ordinary man. Of
that he was sure. Richter's presence on the enemy's first moon rocket
was ample testimony of his stature. What were his thoughts? His plans?
What fires burned behind his placid countenance? Crag wished he knew.
One thing was certain. He could never lower his guard. Not for a second.
He sighed and turned away from the viewport. A lot of data had piled up.
He'd give Alpine a little work to do to get Gotch off his neck. He
reached for the communicator thinking of Ann. Probably got someone else
lined up by now, he thought sourly.
* * * * *
Work on Bandit progressed slowly. Nagel dragged through each successive
work shift on the verge of exhaustion. Crag expected him to collapse
momentarily. His disintegration took him further and further from the
group. He ate silently, with eyes averted. He didn't protest the
arduous hours, but the amount of work he performed was negligible.
Larkwell maintained his stamina but had become more quiet in the
process. He seldom smiled ... never joked. Occasionally he was truculent
or derisive, referring to Bandit as the "Commander's hot box."
Richter remained impersonal and aloof, but performed his assigned tasks
without apparent resentment. Crag noticed that he stayed as far from
Larkwell as possible, perhaps fearing violence from the burly
construction boss. Prochaska, alone, maintained a cheerful exterior--for
which Crag was thankful.
He was watching them now--the evening of the last day of Larkwell's
three-day estimate--returning from the Bandit. The four figures were
strung out over half a mile. He regarded that as a bad omen. They no
longer worked as a crew, but as separate individuals, each in his
separate world, with exception of Prochaska. He turned away from the
port with the familiar feeling that time was running out, and mentally
reviewed what remained to be done.
Making Bandit habitable was a must. There still remained the arduous
task of transferring their belongings and gear to Bandit. Drone Baker
had to be toppled and her cargo salvaged. Then there was Drone Charlie,
at present just a minute speck somewhere in the great void between earth
and her moon; but in somewhat less than forty-eight hours it would
represent tons of metal hurtling over the rim of Arzachel. This time
they couldn't fumble the ball. The building of the airlock in the rill
loomed in the immediate future--an oppressive shadow that caused him no
end of worry. There were other problems, too--like the item of Red
Dog ... the possible battle for control of the moon.
Red Dog, in particular, had become the prime shadow darkening Arzachel's
ashy plains. He thought about the emotional deterioration which had laid
an iron grip over the expedition and wondered if they could hang on
through the rough days ahead. All in all, the task of colonizing the
moon appeared an extremely formidable one. He shook off his
apprehensions and began planning his next step.
* * * * *
That evening Crag knocked off the usual three hour work period following
evening chow. Nagel tumbled onto his pad and was asleep almost
instantly. His breathing was a harsh rasp. At Crag's suggestion
Prochaska took the watch until midnight. Crag stood guard the remainder
of the night to allow Nagel and Larkwell a full night's rest.
While the others slept, Crag brooded at the port. Once he ran his hand
over his face, surprised at the hardness. All bone and no flesh, he
thought. He looked toward the north wall of Arzachel.
In a few short hours Drone Charlie would come blazing over the rim, and
Red Dog snapping at its heels.