by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 13
"You're in trouble." Gotch spoke like a man carefully choosing hiswords. "Intelligence informs us that another rocket's been fired fromeast of the Caspian. BuNav's got a track on it."
Crag waited.
"There are two possibilities," Gotch continued. "The first and mostlogical assumption is that it's manned. We surmise that from the factthat their first manned rocket was successful--that is, as far asreaching the moon is concerned. The assumption is further borne out byits trajectory and rate of acceleration." His voice fell off.
"And the second possibility?" Crag prompted.
"Warhead," Gotch said succinctly. "Intelligence informs us that theenemy is prepared to blow Arzachel off the face of the moon if they failto take it over. And they have failed--so far." Crag tossed the ideaaround in his mind.
He said fretfully, "I doubt if they could put a warhead down onArzachel. That takes some doing. Hell, it's tough enough to monitor onein 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 landingparty 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," Craginterjected.
"Well, yes, I think that is a reasonable assumption...."
Crag weighed the information. Gotch was probably right. A nuclearexplosion on the moon would be detected on earth. That was the dangerouscourse--the shot that could usher in World War III and perhaps a newcave era.
Attack by a landing party seemed more logical. They batted ideas backand forth. The Colonel suggested that just before the landing phase ofRed Dog--the code name assigned the new rocket--Crag post armed guardsat some point covering the Aztec.
"Might as well get some use out of Bandit's automatic weapons," Gotchdryly concluded.
Crag disagreed. He didn't think it likely that any attack would take theform of a simple armed assault. "That would give us time to get off amessage," he argued. "They can't afford that."
Gotch pointed out that neither could they launch a missile while stillin space. "A homing weapon couldn't differentiate between Aztec, Bakerand Bandit," he said.
"But they'd still have to have some sure fire quick-kill method," Craginsisted.
"You may be right. Have you a better plan?"
Crag did, and outlined it in some detail. Gotch listened without commentuntil he had finished.
"Could work," he said finally. "However, it's going to shoot yourschedule, even if you could do it."
"Why can't we?"
"You're not supermen, Commander," he said tersely. "The psychiatristshere inform us that your crew--as individuals--should be near thebreaking 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'tfeel. "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 theCommander in the field." His voice was flat. "Good luck." He cut offabruptly.
Crag looked at the silent panel for a moment. Another problem, anothersolution required. Maybe Gotch was right. Maybe they'd all wind up ascandidates for the laughing academy--if they lived long enough. Thethought didn't cheer him. Well, he'd better get moving. There was a lotto be done. He looked up and saw the question in Prochaska's eyes. Mightas 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 theplan without telling the others the full story. It might be the breakingpoint, especially for Nagel, and they would be needing a good oxygen manin the coming days. Crag got on the interphone and called Larkwell, whowas working in the tail section with the others.
"Judging from what you've seen of Bandit, how long would it take to makeit livable as crew quarters?"
"Why?" he asked querulously.
"I haven't time to go into that now," Crag said evenly. "Just give meyour best estimate."
"You can't make it livable. It's hot."
"Not that hot. You've just got the radiation creeps. Let's have theestimate."
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 haveto 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. "Startnow. Use Nagel and Richter. Load up the gear you'll need and get in atrip before chow."
"Now?" Larkwell's voice was incredulous. "What about winding up this jobfirst? The airlock is damned important."
"Drop it," Crag said briefly. There was silence at the other end of theinterphone.
"Okay," the construction boss grumbled finally.
Crag suggested that Prochaska make the first trip with them to look overBandit's electronic gear. He would need to know what repairs andmodifications would be necessary to make it usable. The Chief wasdelighted. It would mark the first time he'd been out of the space cabinsince the day of their landing.
* * * * *
Crag watched them leave through the port. It was impossible to tell thecrew members apart in their bulky garments. The extra oxygen and thetools Larkwell had selected gave them an odd shambling gait, despite thelow gravity. They plodded in single file, winding slowly across theplain. The thought struck him that they resembled grotesque life formsfrom some alien planet. For just a moment he felt sorry, and a trifleguilty, over assigning Nagel to the trip. The oxygen man was already ina state of perpetual fatigue. Still, he couldn't allow anyone the luxuryof rest. Work was in the cards--grueling, slavish toil if they were tosurvive.
It struck Crag that this was a moment of great risk. Of the four figuresplodding toward Bandit, one was an enemy ... one a saboteur. Yet, whatcould either accomplish by striking now? Nothing! _Not while I live_, hethought. Strangely enough, Richter bothered him more than the saboteur.There was a quality about the man he couldn't decipher, an armor hecouldn't penetrate. It occurred to him that, outwardly at least, Richterwas much like Prochaska--quiet, calm, steady. He performed the tasksassigned him without question ... evinced no hostility, no resentment.He was seemingly oblivious to Nagel's barbs and Larkwell's occasionalsurly rebuffs. On the face of the record he was an asset--a work horsewho performed far more labor than Nagel.
He decided he couldn't write the German off as a factor to becontinually weighed--weighed and watched. He was no ordinary man. Ofthat he was sure. Richter's presence on the enemy's first moon rocketwas 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. Hereached for the communicator thinking of Ann. Probably got someone elselined up by now, he thought sourly.
* * * * *
Work on Bandit progressed slowly. Nagel dragged through each successivework shift on the verge of exhaustion. Crag expected him to collapsemomentarily. His disintegration took him further and further from thegroup. He ate silently, with eyes averted. He didn't protest thearduous hours, but the amount of work he performed was negligible.Larkwell maintained his stamina but had become more quiet in theprocess. He seldom smiled ... never joked. Occasionally he was truculentor derisive, referring to Bandit
as the "Commander's hot box."
Richter remained impersonal and aloof, but performed his assigned taskswithout apparent resentment. Crag noticed that he stayed as far fromLarkwell as possible, perhaps fearing violence from the burlyconstruction boss. Prochaska, alone, maintained a cheerful exterior--forwhich Crag was thankful.
He was watching them now--the evening of the last day of Larkwell'sthree-day estimate--returning from the Bandit. The four figures werestrung out over half a mile. He regarded that as a bad omen. They nolonger worked as a crew, but as separate individuals, each in hisseparate world, with exception of Prochaska. He turned away from theport with the familiar feeling that time was running out, and mentallyreviewed what remained to be done.
Making Bandit habitable was a must. There still remained the arduoustask of transferring their belongings and gear to Bandit. Drone Bakerhad to be toppled and her cargo salvaged. Then there was Drone Charlie,at present just a minute speck somewhere in the great void between earthand her moon; but in somewhat less than forty-eight hours it wouldrepresent tons of metal hurtling over the rim of Arzachel. This timethey couldn't fumble the ball. The building of the airlock in the rillloomed in the immediate future--an oppressive shadow that caused him noend of worry. There were other problems, too--like the item of RedDog ... the possible battle for control of the moon.
Red Dog, in particular, had become the prime shadow darkening Arzachel'sashy plains. He thought about the emotional deterioration which had laidan iron grip over the expedition and wondered if they could hang onthrough the rough days ahead. All in all, the task of colonizing themoon appeared an extremely formidable one. He shook off hisapprehensions and began planning his next step.
* * * * *
That evening Crag knocked off the usual three hour work period followingevening chow. Nagel tumbled onto his pad and was asleep almostinstantly. His breathing was a harsh rasp. At Crag's suggestionProchaska took the watch until midnight. Crag stood guard the remainderof 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 handover his face, surprised at the hardness. All bone and no flesh, hethought. He looked toward the north wall of Arzachel.
In a few short hours Drone Charlie would come blazing over the rim, andRed Dog snapping at its heels.