Nagel was dead. He lay sprawled in the ash, a pitifully small limp
bundle in a deflated suit. He had gotten his wish--he would never see
earth again. _Under the wide and starry sky_ ... Now he was asleep with
his dream. Asleep in the fantastically bizarre world he had come to
love. But the fact still remained: Nagel had been murdered. Murdered in
cold blood. Murdered by the killer of little Max Prochaska. And now the
killer was in command! Crag looked down at the crumpled body, reliving
the scene, feeling it burn in his brain.
Finally he rose, filled with a terrible cold anger.
"There's one thing he forgot...."
"What?" Richter asked.
"The cylinders in Drone Baker. We didn't move them."
He looked at his oxygen gauge. Low. Baker lay almost four miles to the
east on a trail seldom used. They had never traversed it by night.
Baker, in fact, had become the forgotten drone. He probed his mind.
There was a spur of intervening rock ... rills ... a twisty trail
threading between lofty pinnacles....
"Well have to hurry," Richter urged.
"Let's move...."
They started toward the east, walking silently, side by side, their
former relationship forgotten. Crag accepted the fact that their
survival, the success of his mission--Gotch's well-laid plans--could
very well depend upon what Richter did. Or didn't do. He had suddenly
become an integral part in the complex machine labeled STEP ONE.
They reached the ridge which lay between them and the drone and started
upward, climbing slowly, silently, measuring distance against time in
which time represented life-sustaining oxygen. The climb over the ridge
proved extremely hazardous. Despite their torches they more than once
brushed sharp needles of rock and stumbled over low jagged extrusions.
They were panting heavily before they reached the crest and started down
the opposite side. They reached the plain and Crag checked his oxygen
gauge. The reading alarmed him. He didn't say anything to Richter but
speeded his pace. The German's breath became a hoarse rumble in the
earphones.
"Stop!" There was consternation in Richter's warning cry. Crag
simultaneously saw the chasm yawning almost at their feet.
Richter said quietly: "Which way?"
"Damned if I know." Crag flashed his torch into the rill. It was wide
and deep, a cleft with almost vertical sides. They would have to go
around it. He flashed the light in both directions along the plain.
There was no visible end to the fissure.
He studied the stars briefly and said, "East is to our right. We'll have
to work along the rill and gamble that it ends soon."
It did. They rounded its end and resumed their way toward the east. Crag
had to stop several times to get his bearings. The shadows danced before
the torch beams confusing him, causing odd illusions. He fell to
navigating by the stars. It occurred to him that Baker, measured against
the expanse of the plain, would be but a speck of dust.
Richter's voice broke reflectively into his earphones, "Oxygen's about
gone. Looks like this place is going to wind up a graveyard."
Crag said stubbornly: "We'll make it."
"It better be soon...."
"We should be about there."
They topped a small rise and dropped back to the plain. The needle of
Drone Baker punctuated the sky--blotted out the stars. Oxygen ...
oxygen. The word was sweet music. He broke into a run, reached its base
and clawed at the ladder leading to its hold. He got inside panting
heavily, conscious of a slightly dizzy feeling, and grabbed the first
cylinder he saw. He hooked it into his suit system before looking down
toward the plain. Richter was not in sight. Filled with alarm he grabbed
another cylinder and hurried down the ladder. His torch picked up
Richter's form near the base of the rocket. He hooked the cylinder into
his suit system and turned the valve, hoping he was in time, then
flashed his torch on the German's face. He seemed to be breathing. Crag
called experimentally into the earphone, without answer. He finally
snapped off the torch to conserve the battery and waited, his mind a
jumble of thoughts.
"Commander...?"
"Good. I was scared for a moment." He flashed the torch down. Richter's
eyes were open; he was smiling faintly.
"Not a bad way to go," he managed to say. "Nice and easy."
"The only place you're going is Red Dog."
"I'll be okay in a minute."
"Sure you will."
Richter struggled to his feet breathing deeply. "I'm okay."
"We'd better get some more oxygen--enough to last through the
fireworks," Crag suggested.
They returned to the drone and procured eight cylinders, lowering them
with a piece of line supplied for the purpose. They climbed down to the
plain, packed the cylinders and started for Red Dog.
"Going to be close but we'll make it," Crag said, thinking of the
warhead.
Richter answered confidently: "We'll make it."
Strange, Crag thought, I wind up fighting with the enemy to keep one of
my own crew from murdering me. Enemy? No, he could no longer brand
Richter an enemy. He felt a pang of regret over the way he'd mistrusted
him. Still, there had been no other course. A thought jolted him. He
spoke casually, aware he might be stepping on Richter's toes: "There's
one thing I don't understand...."
"What?"
"Larkwell's an enemy agent...." He hesitated.
"And...?"
"Why didn't he attempt to solicit your aid?" Crag finished bluntly.
"You're a spaceman, Commander, not an intelligence agent."
"I don't get the connection."
"An agent trusts no one. And a saboteur is the lone wolf of the agents.
Trust me? Ha! He'd just as soon trust your good Colonel Gotch. No,
Larkwell wouldn't have trusted me. Never."
Crag was silent. An agent who couldn't trust a soldier of his own
country, even when the chips were down? It was a philosophy he couldn't
understand. As for Larkwell! He vowed he'd live long enough to see him
dead. More, he'd kill him himself. He was planning how he'd accomplish
it when they reached the rill where Red Dog was buried. He switched his
torch on and ran it along the edge of the chasm until he located the
rope ladder leading down to the airlock.
"You lower 'em and I'll pack 'em." Crag ordered. He descended into the
rill and began moving the cylinders Richter lowered to him. Finished, he
examined the cylinders they had brought earlier. Empty! His lips set in
a thin line as he examined the cylinders which the rocket had brought
from earth. Empty ... all empty. Larkwell had done a thorough job.
He gritted his teeth. Before he was through he'd ram the empty cylinders
down Larkwell's throat. Yeah, and that wasn't all. He contemplated the
step-by-step procedure. Larkwell would die. Die horribly. He looked
toward the hatch wondering what was detaining Richter. He waited a
moment, then climbed back to the plain. The German was nowhere in sight.
"Richter?" There was no answer. He checked his interphone to make sure
it was working and called again. Silence. He swept his torch over the
plain. No Richter. The German had vanished ... disappeared into the
black maw of the crater.
"Richter! Richter, answer me...!" Silence. Apprehension swept him. He
called again, desperately:
"Richter!"
"I'm all right, Commander." Richter's voice was low, seeming to have
come from a distance. "You'd better get back into Red Dog."
"Where are you?" Crag demanded.
"I have a job to do."
"Come back." The German didn't answer. Crag was about to start in
pursuit when he realized he didn't have the faintest idea what direction
Richter had taken. He hesitated, baffled and fearful by turn.
Periodically he called his name without receiving an answer. He fumed,
wondering what the German had in mind. He couldn't get into Bandit and,
besides, he was unarmed. He popped back into Red Dog and looked at the
chrono. If Gotch's figures were right the warhead would strike in four
minutes. He climbed out of the rill.
"Warhead due in less than four minutes," he called into his mike.
"Get back into Red Dog, Commander," Richter insisted.
Crag snapped irritably: "What the hell are you trying to do."
"Commander, many people have crossed the frontier--from East to West.
Many others have wanted to."
"I don't get you."
"I had to come all the way to Arzachel to find my frontier, Commander."
"Richter, come back," Crag ordered, his voice level.
"There's nothing you can do. You didn't know it but when I landed here I
crossed the frontier, Commander. I went from East to West, on the moon."
"Richter...?"
"Now I am free."
"I don't know what you're talking about, but you'd better get back
here--and pronto. You'll get massacred if you're on the plain when the
rocket hits." Inwardly he was shaken. "There's not a damn thing you can
do about Larkwell."
"Ah, but there is. He forgot two things, Commander. The oxygen in Baker
was only the first."
"And the second?"
Richter did not answer.
Crag called again. No answer. He waited, uncertain what to do next.
The ground twisted violently under his feet. The warhead! A series of
diminishing quakes rolled the plain in sharp jolts. Missed Arzachel, he
thought jubilantly. It missed ... missed. He twisted his head upward.
The sky was black, black, a great black spread that reached to infinity,
broken only by the brilliance of the stars. Off to one side Betelgeuse
was a baleful red eye in the shoulder of Orion.
A picture of what was happening flashed through his mind. Somewhere
between Alphons and Arzachel thousands of tons of rock were hurtling
upward in great ballistic trajectories, parabolic courses which would
bring them crashing back onto the lunar surface. Many would escape,
would hurtle through space until infinity ended. Some would be caught in
the gravisphere of planets, would crash down into strange worlds. But
most would smash back on the moon. Rocks ranging in size from grains of
dust to giants capable of smashing skyscrapers would fall like rain.
"Richter! Richter!" He repeated the call several times. No answer. He
swept his torch futilely over the plain. Richter was a dedicated man. If
the coming rain of death held any fears for him he failed to show it. He
looked up again, fancying that he saw movement against the stars.
Somewhere up there mountains were hurtling through the void. He
hurriedly descended into the rill, hesitated, then moved into the
rocket. He again hesitated before leaving the airlock open. Richter
might return.
After a while he felt the first thud, a jolt that shook the rocket and
traveled through his body like a wave. The floor danced under his feet.
He held his breath expectantly, suppressing an instant of panic. The
rocket vibrated several times but none of the jolts was as severe as the
first. He waited, aware of the stillness, a silence so deep it was like
a great thunder. The big stuff must all be down. The thought bolstered
his courage. The idea of being squashed like a bug was not appealing. He
waited, wondering if Richter had survived. He thought of Larkwell and
involuntarily clenched his fists. Larkwell, or Igor Malin--if he
lived--would be his first order of business. He remembered Nagel and
Prochaska and began planning how he would kill the man in Bandit. He
waited a while longer. The absolute silence grated his ears. Now, he
thought.
He slipped on a fresh oxygen cylinder, and hooked a spare into his belt,
then pawed through the supplies until he found fresh batteries for his
torch. Finally he got one of the automatic rifles from Red Dog's
arsenal. After that he climbed up to the plain. He called Richter's name
several times over the phones, with little hope of answer. He looked at
the sky, then swept his torch over the moonscape. A feeling of solitude
assailed him. For the first time since leaving earth he was totally
alone.
The last time he had experienced such a feeling was when he'd pushed an
experimental rocket ship almost to the edge of space. He shook off the
feeling and debated what to do. Richter undoubtedly was dead. Had
Larkwell--or was it Malin?--survived the rock storm? Spurred to action,
he turned toward Bandit. Nothing seemed changed, he thought, or almost
nothing. Here and there the smooth ash was pitted. Once he came to a
jagged rock which lay almost astride his path. He was sure it hadn't
been there before.
He moved more cautiously as he drew near Bandit, remembering that the
occupant of the rocket was armed. He climbed a familiar knoll, searching
the plain ahead with his torch. He stopped, puzzled, flashing the light
to check his bearings. Satisfied he was on the right knoll he played the
light ahead again while moving down to the plain. He walked slowly
forward. Once he dropped to the ground to see if he could discern the
bulk of Bandit against the stars. Finally he walked faster, sweeping the
torch over the plain in wide arcs. Suddenly he stopped. Gone! Bandit was
gone! It couldn't be. It might be demolished, smashed flat, but it
couldn't disappear. He wondered if he were having hallucinations. No, he
was sane ... completely sane. He began calling Richter's name. The
silence mocked him. Finally he turned back toward Red Dog.
Crag slept. He slept with the airlock closed and the cabin flooded with
oxygen. He slept the sleep of the dead, a luxurious sleep without
thought or dream. When he awakened, he ate and donned the pressure suit,
thinking he would have to get more oxygen from the drone. He opened the
hatch and scrambled out. The plain was light. The sun was an intolerable
circle hanging at the very edge of the horizon. He blinked his eyes to
get them used to the glare.
He studied the plain for a long time, then hefted the rifle and started
toward Bandit before he remembered there was no Bandit. No Bandit? When
he reached the top of the knoll, he knew he was right. Bandit
unaccountably was gone. He searched the area in wide circles. The
question grew in his mind. He found several twisted pieces of metal--a
jagged piece of engine. Abruptly he found Richter.
He was dead. His suit hung limp, airless against his body. He stared at
the object next to Richter. It was a moment before he recognized it as
the rocket launcher.
"_He forgot two things, Commander...._"
Now he understood Richter's words. Now he knew the motive that had
driven him onto the plain in the face of the rock storm. Richter had
used the launcher to destroy Bandit, to destroy the murderer of
Prochaska and Nagel. He marveled that Richter could have carried the
heavy weapon. Once, before, he had watched two men struggle under its
weight Richter must have mustered every ounce of his strength.
He looked at the fallen form for a long time. Richter had crossed his
frontier. At last he turned and started toward Red Dog. Adam Crag, the
Man in the Moon. Now he was really the Man in the Moon. The only Man.
Colonel Crag, Commanding Officer, Pickering Field. General Crag of the
First Moon expeditionary Force. Adam Crag, Emperor of Luna. He
laughed--a mirthless laugh. Damned if he couldn't be anything he wanted
to be--on the Moon.
* * * * *
The sun climbed above the rim of Arzachel transforming the vast
depressed interior of the crater into a caldron of heat and glare. In
the morning of the lunar day the rock structures rising from the plain
cast lengthy black shadows over the ashy floor--a mosaic in black and
white. Crag kept busy. He stripped the drones of their scant amount of
usable supplies--mainly oxygen cylinders from Baker--and set up a new
communication post in Red Dog. In the first hours of the new morning
Gotch named the saboteur. Crag listened, wearily. Just then he wasn't
interested in the fact that an alert intelligence agent had doubted that
a man of 5' 5" could have been a star basketball player, as the
Superintendent of the Maple Hill Orphanage had said. He expressed his
feelings by shutting off the communicator in the middle of the Colonel's
explanation.
The sun climbed, slowly, until it hung overhead, ending a morning which
had lasted seven earth days in length. At midday the shadows had all but
vanished. He finished marking the last of three crosses and stepped back
to survey his work. He read the names at the head of the mounds: Max
Prochaska, Gordon Nagel, Otto Richter. Each was followed by a date. Out
on the plain were other graves, those of the crewmen of Bandit and Red
Dog. He had marked each mound with a small pile of stones. Later it
struck him that someday there might be peace. Someday, someone might
want to look at one of those piles of stone. He returned and added a
notation to each.
* * * * *
The sun moved imperceptibly across the sky. It seemed to hover above the
horizon for a long while before slipping beyond the rim. Night seemed
eternal. Crag worked and slept and waited. He measured his oxygen,
rationed his food, and planned. He was tough. He'd survive. If only to
read Gotch off, he promised himself savagely.
The sun came up again. In time it set. Rose and set.
Crag waited.
* * * * *
He watched the silvery ship let down. It backed down slowly, gracefully,
coming to rest on the ashy plain with scarcely a jar. Somehow he didn't
feel jubilant. He waited, gravely, watching the figures that came from
the ship. He wasn't surprised that the first one was Colonel Michael
Gotch.
* * * * *
Later they gathered in the small crew room of the Astronaut, the name of
the first atom-powered spaceship. They waited solemnly--Gotch and Crag,
the pilot, and two crewmen--waiting for the thin man to speak. Just now
he was sitting at the small pulldown chow table peering at some papers,
records of the moon expedition. Finally he looked up.
"It seems to me that your Nation's claim to the Moon is justified," he
said. The words were fateful. The thin man's name was Fredrick Gunter.
He was also Secretary-General of the United Nations.
* * * * *
Jeff Sutton, although experienced in journalistic and technical
writings, has only recently turned his hand to novels with the
result that _First on the Moon_ is also his first novel. A native
Californian, and a Marine veteran, he is presently employed as a
research engineer for Convair-San Diego, specializing appropriately
enough for this novel in problems of high altitude survival. He says
of himself:
"I have long been a science-fiction reader (a common ailment among
scientists and engineers). On the personal side, a number of factors
have coalesced to pin me to the typewriter. I am living in--and
working in--a world of missiles, rockets, and far-reaching dreams.
In many areas the border between science-fiction and science
suddenly has become a lace curtain. It is a world I have some
acquaintance with--and fits very nicely into my desire to write."
* * * * *
SCIENCE-FICTION AT ITS BEST
Luna Was The Goal, Earth The Prize
It was a top secret, and yet the enemy knew. They knew that the
Americans were about to send a manned rocket to the moon and
thereby claim it for Old Glory. They knew also that whoever held
the moon would command the Earth ... and they were determined to
stop us at all costs!
When assassination and sabotage failed to stop the take-off, they'd
have to use even more drastic measures. There might be an H-bomb
loaded rocket missile, there could be a Red spaceship with a
suicide crew, and there was always the possibility of their placing
a spy aboard the U.S. rocket.
FIRST ON THE MOON is a thrilling adventure of the very near future.
Written with up-to-the-minute accuracy by a professional aviation
research engineer, it is a top-notch novel that is science-fiction
only by the thinnest margin!
AN ACE BOOK