by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 17
"Martin Larkwell was a good boy," the superintendent said reminiscently,"and of course we're highly pleased he's made his mark in the world." Helooked at the agent and beamed. "Or should I say the moon?" The agentsmiled dutifully.
"Young Martin was particularly good with his hands. Not that he wasn'tsmart," he added hurriedly. "He was very bright, in fact, but he wasfortunate in that he coupled it with an almost uncanny knack of usinghis hands."
The superintendent rambled at length. The agent listened, thinking itwas the same old story. The men in the moon were all great men. They hadbeen fine, upstanding boys, all bright with spotless records. Well, ofcourse that was to be expected in view of the rigorous weeding outprogram which had resulted in their selections. Only one of them was atraitor. Which one? The question drummed against his mind.
"Martin wasn't just a study drudge," the superintendent was saying. "Hewas a fine athlete. The star forward of the Maple Hill Orphanagebasketball team for three years," he added proudly. He leaned forwardand lowered his voice as if taking the agent into his confidence.
"We're conducting a drive to build the orphanage a new gym. Maybe youcan guess the name we've selected for it?"
"The Martin Larkwell Gymnasium," the agent said drily.
"Right." The superintendent beamed. "That's how much we think of MartinLarkwell."
As it turned out, the superintendent wasn't the only one who rememberedMartin Larkwell with fondness. A druggist, a grocer, a gas stationoperator and a little gray lady who ran a pet shop remembered the orphanboy with surprising affection. They and many others. That's the way thechips fall, the agent thought philosophically. Let a man become famousand the whole world remembers him. Well, his job was to separate thewheat from the chaff.
In the days to follow he painstakingly traced Martin Larkwell's trailfrom the Maple Hill Orphanage to New York, to various construction jobsalong the East Coast and, finally, through other agents, to a two-yearstint in Argentina as construction boss for an American equipment firm.Later the trail led back to America and, finally, to constructionforeman on Project Step One. His selection as a member of the Aztec Crewstemmed from his excellent work and construction ability displayedduring building of the drones. All in all, the agent thought, the recordwas clear and shiny bright.
Martin Larkwell, Gordon Nagel, Max Prochaska, Adam Crag--four eagerscrub-faced American boys, each outstanding in his field. There was onlyone hitch. Who was the traitor?
* * * * *
Crag filled Gotch in on the latest developments in Crater Arzachel. TheColonel listened without interruption until he was through, thenretaliated with a barrage of questions. What was the extent of theradioactive field? What were the dimensions of Red Dog? Had any progressbeen made toward salvaging the cargo of Drone Baker? How was the airlockin the rill progressing? Would he please describe the rocket launcherthe enemy had used to destroy the Aztec? Crag gritted his teeth to keepfrom exploding, barely managing civil replies. Finally he could hold itno longer.
"Listen," he grated, "this is a four-man crew, not a damn army."
"Certainly," Gotch interrupted, "I appreciate your difficulties. I wasjust--in a manner of speaking--outlining what has to be done."
"As if I didn't know."
The Colonel pressed for his future plans. Crag told him what he thoughtin no uncertain terms. When he finished he thought he heard a softchuckle over the earphones. Damn Gotch, he thought, the man is a sadist.The Colonel gave him another morsel of information--a tidbit thatmollified him.
Pickering Field, Gotch informed him, was now the official name of thelanding site in Crater Arzachel. Furthermore, the Air Force waspetitioning the Joint Chiefs to make it an official part of the U.S.Air Force defense system. A fact which had been announced to the world.Furthermore, the United States had petitioned the U.N. to recognize itssovereignty over the moon. Before cutting off he added one last bit ofinformation, switching to moon code to give it.
"_Atom job near completion_," he spelled out. For the moment Crag feltjubilant. An atom-powered space ship spelled complete victory over theEastern World. It also meant Venus ... Mars ... magical names in hismind. Man was on his way to the stars. MAN--the peripatetic quester. Forjust an instant he felt a pang of jealousy. He'd be pinned to his vacuumwhile men were conquering the planets. Or would he? But the mood passed.Pickering Field, he realized, would play an important role in the futureof space flight. If it weren't the stars, at least it was the jump-off.In time it would be a vast Air Force Base housing rockets instead ofstratojets. Pickering Base--the jump-off--the road to the stars. Prettysoon the place would be filled with rank so high that the bird colonelswould be doing mess duty. But right now, he was Mr. Pickering Field, theMan with the Brass Eyeballs.
While the others caught up on their sleep, Crag and Prochaska reviewedtheir homework, as the Chief had dubbed their planning sessions. Thearea in which Bandit rested was too far from the nearest rill to use asa base of operation, and it was also vulnerable to meteorite damage.Bandit had to be abandoned, and soon. Red Dog would be their next home.There was also the problem of salvaging the contents of Drone Baker andremoving the contents of Drone Charlie. Last, there was the problem ofbuilding the airlock in one of the rills. When they had laid out theproblems, they exchanged quizzical glances. The Chief smiled weakly.
"Seems like a pretty big order."
"A very big order," Crag amended. "The first move is to secure RedDog." They talked about it until Crag found his eyelids growing heavy.Prochaska, although tired, volunteered to take the watch. Crag noddedgratefully--a little sleep was something he could use.
* * * * *
Red Dog was squat, ebony, taper-nosed, distinguishable from the lithicstructures dotting this section of Crater Arzachel only by its symmetry.The grotesque rock ledges, needle-sharp pinnacles and twisted formationsof the plain clearly were the handiwork of a nature in the throes ofbirth, when volcanoes burst and the floor of the crater was an uneasysea of white-hot magmatic rock. Red Dog was just as clearly the creationof some other-world artificer, a creature born of the intelligence andpatience of man, structured to cross the planetary voids. Yet it seemeda part of the plain, as ancient as the brooding dolomites and dioriteswhich made the floor of Arzachel a lithic wonderland. The tail of RedDog was buried in the ash of the plain. Its body reached upward, cantedslightly from the vertical, as if it were ready to spring again to thestars.
The rocket launcher had been removed. Now it stood on the plain off toone side of the rocket, small and portable, like some deadly insect. Thelauncher bothered Crag. He wanted to destroy it--or the single missilethat remained--but was deterred by its possible use if the enemy shouldland another manned ship. In the end he left it where it was.
One of the numerous rills which crisscrossed the floor of the crater cutnear the base of the rocket at a distance of about ten yards. It was ashallow rill, about twelve feet wide and ten feet deep, with a bottom ofsoft ash.
Adam Crag studied the rocket and rill in turn, a plan gradually formingin his mind. The rocket could be toppled, its engines removed and anairlock installed in the tail section, as had been done with the Aztec.It could be lowered into the rill and its body, all except the airlock,covered with ash. Materials salvaged from the drones could be used toconstruct extensions running along the floor of the rill and these, inturn, covered with ash. This, then, would be the first moonlock, a placewhere man could live, safe from the constant danger of destruction bychance meteorites.
He looked thoughtfully at the sun. It was an unbearable circle of whitelight hanging in the purple-black sky just above the horizon. Giantblack shadows crept out from the towering walls of the crater. Withinanother twenty-four hours they would engulf the rocket. During the lunarnight--two weeks long--the crater floor would be gripped in the cold ofabsolute space; the rocket would lie in a stygian night broken only bythe brilliance of the stars and the reflected ligh
t of an earth whichwould seem to fill the sky. But they couldn't wait for the advent of anew day. They would have to get started immediately.
Larkwell opposed the idea of working through the long lunar night. Heargued that the suits would not offer sufficient protection against thecold, they needed light to work, and that the slow progress they wouldmake wouldn't warrant the risks and discomfort they would have toundergo. Nagel unexpectedly sided with Crag. He cited the waste ofoxygen which resulted by having to decompress Bandit every time someoneleft or entered the ship.
"We need an airlock, and soon," he said.
Crag listened and weighed the arguments. Larkwell was right. The spacesuits weren't made to withstand prolonged exposure during the bitterhours of the lunar night. But Nagel was right, too.
"I doubt if we could live cooped up in Bandit for two weeks withoutmurdering one another," Prochaska observed quietly. "I vote we goahead."
"Sure, you sit on your fanny and monitor the radio," Larkwell growled."I'm the guy who has to carry the load."
Prochaska reddened and started to answer when Crag cut in: "Cut thedamned bickering," he snapped. "Max handles the communication becausethat's his job." He looked sharply at Larkwell. The construction bossgrunted but didn't reply.
* * * * *
Night and bitter cold came to Crater Arzachel with a staggering blow.Instantly the plain became a black pit lighted only by the stars and theenormous crescent of the earth--an airless pit in which the temperatureplunged until metal became as brittle as glass and the materials of thespace suits stiffened until Crag feared they would crack.
Larkwell warned against continuing their work.
"One misstep in lowering Red Dog and it'll shatter like an egg."
Crag realized he was right. Lowering the rocket in the bitter cold andblackness would be a superhuman job. Loss of the rocket would bedisastrous. Against this was the necessity of obtaining shelter from themeteor falls. His determination was fortified by the discovery that astray meteorite had smashed the nose of Drone Charlie. He decided to goon.
The cold seeped through their suits, chilled their bones, touched theirarms and legs like a thousand pin pricks and lay like needles in theirlungs until every movement was sheer agony. Yet their survival dependedupon movement, hence every moment away from Bandit was filled withforced activity. But even the space cabin of Bandit was more like anoutsized icebox than a place designed for human habitation. The rocket'sinsulated walls were ice to the touch, their breaths were frostystreams--sleep was possible only because of utter fatigue. At the end ofeach work shift the body simply rebelled against the task of retainingconsciousness. Thus a few hours of merciful respite against the cold wasobtained.
Crag assigned Prochaska the task of monitoring the radio despite hisplea to share in the more arduous work. The knowledge that one of hiscrew was a saboteur lay constantly in his mind. He had risked leavingProchaska alone before, he could risk it again, but he wasn't willing torisk leaving any of the others alone in Bandit. Yet, Prochaska hadn'tfound the bomb! Larkwell had worked superhumanly at the task ofrebuilding the Aztec--Nagel had saved his life when he could just aseasily have let him die. Neither seemed the work of a saboteur. Yet thecold fact remained--there was a saboteur!
Richter, too, preyed on his mind. The self-styled Eastern scientist wasnoncommittal, speaking only when spoken to. Yet he performed hisassigned duties without hesitation. He had, in fact, made himself souseful that he almost seemed one of the crew. That, Crag told himself,was the danger. The tendency was to stop watching Richter, to trust himfarther and farther. Was he planning, biding his time, preparing tostrike? How? When? He wished he knew.
* * * * *
They toppled Red Dog in the dark of the moon.
Larkwell had run two cables to manually operated winches set abouttwenty-five yards from the rocket. A second line extended from eachwinch to the ravine. The ends of these were weighted with rocks. Theyserved to anchor the winches during the lowering of the rocket. Finallya guide line ran from the nose of the rocket to a third winch. Richterand Nagel manned the lowering winches while Larkwell worked with theguide line, with only small hand torches to aid them. It wasapproximately the same setup used on the Aztec--they were getting goodat it. Crag helped until the moment came to lower the rocket, then therewas little for him to do. He contented himself with watching theoperation, playing his torch over the scene as he felt it was needed.
It was an eery feeling. The rocket was a black monster bathed in thepuny yellow rays of their hand torches. The pale light gave the illusionof movement until the rocket, the rocks, and the very floor of thecrater seemed to writhe and squirm, playing tricks on the eyes. It was,he knew, a dangerous moment, one ripe for a saboteur to strike--or ripefor Richter.
It was dark. Not an ebony dark but one, rather, with the odd color ofmilky velvet. The earth was almost full, a gigantic globe whosereflected light washed out the brilliance of the stars and gave a milkysheen to Crater Arzachel. It was a light in which the eye detected formas if it were looking through a murky sea. It detected form but misseddetail. Only the gross structures of the plain were visible: theblackness of the rocket reaching upward into the night; fantastictwisted rocks which blotted out segments of the stars; the black blobsof men moving in heavy space suits, dark shadows against the stilldarker night. The eery almost futile beams of the hand torches seemedworse than useless.
"All set." Larkwell's voice was grim. "Let her come."
Crag fastened his eyes on the nose of Red Dog, a tapered indistinctsilhouette.
"Start letting out line at the count of three." There was a pause beforeLarkwell began the countdown.
"One ... two ... three...."
The nose moved, swinging slowly across the sky, then began falling.
"Slack off!"
The lines jerked, snapped taut, and the nose hung suspended in space,then began swinging to one side.
"Take up on your line, Richter." The sideward movement stopped, leavingthe rocket canted at an angle of about forty-five degrees.
"Okay...." The nose moved down again, slower this time. Crag began tobreathe easier. Suddenly the nose skidded to the rear, falling, thenthe rocket was a motionless blob on the plain.
"That did it." Larkwell's voice was ominous, yet tinged with disgust.
"What happened?" Crag found himself shouting into the lip mike.
"The tail slipped. That's what we get for trying to lower it under theseconditions," Larkwell snarled. "The damn thing's probably smashed."
Crag didn't answer. He moved slowly toward the rocket, playing his torchover its hull in an attempt to discern its details. He was consciousthat the others had come up and were doing the same thing, but even whenhe stood next to it Red Dog was no more than a black shadow.
"Feel it," Larkwell barked, "that's the only way to tell. The torchesare useless." They followed his advice. Crag walked alongside therocket, moving his hand over the smooth surface. He had reached the tailand started back on the opposite side when Larkwell's voice rang in hisears.
"Smashed!"
"Where?"
"The under side--where she hit the deck. Looks like she came down on arock."
Crag hurried back around the rocket, nearly stumbling over Larkwell'slegs. The construction boss was lying on his stomach.
"Under here." Crag dropped to his knees, then to his stomach and movedalongside Larkwell, playing his beam over the hull. He saw the breakimmediately, a ragged, gaping hole where the metal had shattered againsta small rock outcropping. Too big for a weld? Larkwell answered hisunspoken thought.
"You'll play hell getting that welded."
"It might be possible."
"There may be more breaks." They lay there for a moment playing theirbeams along the visible underside of Red Dog until they were satisfiedthat, in this section at least, there was no more damage.
"What now?" Larkwell asked, when they had crawled back from
under therocket.
"The plans haven't changed," Crag said stonily. "We repair it ... fix itup ... move in. That's all there is to it."
"You can't fix it by just saying so," Larkwell growled. "First it's gotto be fixable. It looks like a cooked duck, to me."
"We gotta start back," Nagel said urgently, "oxygen's getting low."
Crag looked at his gauge. Nagel was right. They'd have to get moving. Hewas about to give the signal to return to Bandit when Richter spoke up.
"It can be repaired." For a moment there was a startled silence.
"How?"
"The inside of the cabin is lined with foam rubber, the same as inBandit--a self-sealing type designed for protection against meteoritedamage."
"So...?" Larkwell asked belligerently.
Richter explained, "It's not porous. If the break were covered withmetal and lined with the foam, it would do a pretty good job of sealingthe cabin."
"You can't patch a leak that big with rubber and expect it to hold,"Larkwell argued. "Hell, the pressure would blow right through."
"Not if you lined the break with metal first," Richter persisted.
The suggestion startled Crag, coming as it did from a man whom heregarded as an enemy. For a moment he wondered if the German's instinctfor survival were greater than his patriotism. But the plan soundedplausible.
He asked Larkwell: "What do you think?"
"Could be," he replied noncommittally. He didn't seem pleased thatRichter was intruding in a sphere which he considered his own.
Crag gave a last look at the silhouette of the fallen giant on the plainand announced: "We'll try it."
"If it doesn't work, we're in the soup," Larkwell insisted. "Supposethere are more breaks?"
"We'll patch those, too," Crag snapped. He felt an unreasonable surge ofanger toward the construction boss. He sucked his lip, vexedly, thenturned his torch on his oxygen meter. "We'd better get moving."