by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 19
The earth was no longer a round full ball. It was a gibbous mass ofmilk-white light, humpbacked, a twisted giant in the sky whose reflectedradiance swept the lunar night and dimmed even the brightest of thestars. Its beacon swept out through space, falling in Crater Arzachelwith a soft creamy sheen, outlining the structures of the plain with itsdim glow.
Larkwell and Nagel had finished the airlock. The rocket had been testedand, despite a few minute leaks they had failed to locate, the spacecabin was sufficiently airtight to serve their purpose. But the rockethad still to be lowered into the rill. Larkwell favored waiting for thecoming sun.
"It's only a few more days," he told Crag.
"We can't wait."
"We smashed this baby once by not waiting."
"Well have to risk it," Crag said firmly.
"Why? We're not that short of oxygen."
Crag debated. Sooner or later the others would have to be told about thenew threat from the sides. That morning Gotch had given him ominousnews. The computers indicated it was going to be close. Very close. Helooked around. They were watching him, waiting for him to give answer toLarkwell's question.
He said softly: "Okay, I'll tell you why. There's a rocket homing inwith the name Arzachel on its nose."
"More visitors?" The plaintive query came from Nagel. Crag shook hishead negatively.
"We've got arms," Prochaska broke in confidently. He grinned "We'llelect you Commander of the First Arzachel Infantry Company."
"This rocket isn't manned."
"No?"
"It's a warhead," Crag said grimly, "a nuclear warhead. If we're notunderground when it hits...." He left the sentence dangling and lookedaround. The masked faces were blank, expressionless. It was a moment ofsilence, of weighing, before Larkwell spoke.
"Okay," he said, "we drop her into the hole."
He turned back and gazed at Red Dog. Nagel didn't move. He kept his eyeson Crag, seemingly rooted to the spot until Prochaska touched his arm.
"Come on, Gordon," he said kindly. "We've got work to do." Only then didthe oxygen man turn away. Crag had the feeling he was in a daze.
They worked four hours beyond the regular shift before Crag gave thesignal to stop. The cables had been fastened to Red Dog--the winchesset. Now it was poised on the brink of the rill, ready for lowering intothe black depths. Crag was impatient to push ahead but he knew the menwere too tired. Even the iron-bodied Larkwell was faltering. It would betoo risky. Yet he only reluctantly gave the signal to start back towardBandit.
They trudged across the plain--five black blobs, five shadows ploddingthrough a midnight pit. Crag led the way. The earth overhead gleamedwith a yellow-green light. The stars against the purple-black sky werewashed to a million glimmering pinpoints. The sky, the crater, the blackshadows etched against the blacker night bespoke the alienage of theuniverse. Arzachel was the forgotten world. More, a world that neverwas. It was solid matter created of nothingness, floating innothingness, a minute speck adrift in the terrible emptiness of thecosmos. He shivered. It was an eery feeling.
He reached Bandit and waited for the others to arrive. Prochaska,fresher than the others, was first on the scene. He threw a mock saluteto Crag and started up the ladder. Larkwell and Richter arrived momentslater. He watched them approach. They seemed stooped--like old men, hethought--but they gave him a short nod before climbing to the spacecabin. He was beginning to worry before Nagel finally appeared. Theoxygen man was staggering with weariness, barely able to stand erect.Crag stepped aside.
"After you, Gordon."
"Thanks, Skipper."
Crag anxiously watched while Gordon pulled his way up the rope ladder.He paused halfway and rested his head on his arms. After a moment heresumed the climb. Crag waited until he reached the cabin beforefollowing. Could Nagel hold out? Could a man die of sheer exhaustion?The worry nibbled at his mind. Maybe he should give him a day'srest--let him monitor the communicator. Or just sleep. As it was hiscontribution to their work was nil. He did little more than go throughthe motions.
Crag debated the problem while they pressurized the cabin and removedtheir suits. What would Gotch do? Gotch would drive him till he died.That's what Gotch would expect him to do. No, he couldn't be soft. EvenNagel's slight contribution might make the difference between success orfailure. Life or death. He would have to ride it out. Crag set his lipsgrimly. He had felt kinder toward the oxygen man since that brief periodwhen Nagel had let him peer into his mind. Now ... now he felt like hisexecutioner. Just when he was beginning to understand the vistas ofNagel's being. But understanding and sympathizing with Nagel made histask all the more difficult. Impatiently he pushed the problem from hismind. There were other, bigger things he had to consider. Like thewarhead.
Larkwell was getting out their rations when Prochaska slumpedwordlessly to the floor. Crag leaped to his side. The Chief's face waswhite, drawn, twisted in a curious way. Crag felt bewildered. Odd buthis brain refused to function. He was struggling to make himself thinkwhen he saw Nagel leap for his pressure suit. Understanding came. Heshouted to the others and grabbed for his own garments. He fought a waveof dizziness while he struggled to get them on. His fingers were heavy,awkward. He fumbled with the face plate for long precious seconds beforehe managed to pull it shut and snap on the oxygen.
Nagel had finished and was trying to dress Prochaska. Crag sprang tohelp him. Together they managed to get him into his suit and turn on hisoxygen. Only then did he speak.
"How did we lose oxygen, Gordon?"
"I don't know." He sounded frightened. "A slow leak." He got out histest equipment and fumbled with it. The others watched, waitingnervously until he finally spoke.
"A very slow leak. Must have been a meteorite strike."
"Can you locate it?"
Nagel shrugged in his suit "It'll take time--and cost some oxygen."
Crag looked at him and decided he was past the point of work. Past,even, the point of caring.
"We'll take care of it," he said gently. "Get a little rest, Gordon."
"Thanks, Skipper." Nagel slumped down in one of the seats and buried hishead in his arms. Before long Prochaska began to stir. He opened hiseyes and looked blankly at Crag for a long moment before comprehensioncame to his face.
"Oxygen?"
"Probably a meteorite strike. But it's okay ... now."
Prochaska struggled to his feet "Well, I needed the rest," he jokedfeebly.
The leak put an end to all thoughts of rations. They would have toremain in their suits until it was found and repaired. At Crag'ssuggestion Nagel and Larkwell went to sleep. More properly, they simplycollapsed in their suits. Richter, however, insisted on helping searchfor the break in the hull. Crag didn't protest; he was, in fact,thankful.
It was Prochaska who found it--a small rupture hardly larger than a peain one corner of the cabin.
"Meteorite," he affirmed, examining the hole. "We're lucky it hasn'thappened before."
They patched the break and repressurized the cabin, then tested it.Pressure remained constant. Crag gave a sigh of relief and started toshuck his suit. Richter followed his example but Prochaska hesitated,standing uncertainly.
"Makes you leery," he said.
"The chances of another strike are fairly low," Crag encouraged. "I feelthe same way but we can't live in these duds." He finished peeling offhis garments and Prochaska followed suit.
Despite his fatigue sleep didn't come easy to Crag. He tossedrestlessly, trying to push the problems out of his mind. Just before hefinally fell asleep thought of the saboteur popped into his mind. I'llbe a sitting duck, he told himself. He was trying to pull himself backto wakefulness when his body rebelled.
He slept.
* * * * *
They prepared to lower Red Dog into the rill. Earth was humpbacked inthe sky, almost a crescent, with a bright cone of zodiacal light in theeast. The light was a herald of the coming sun, a sun whose rays wou
ldnot reach the depths of Crater Arzachel for another forty-eight hours.
In the black pit of the crater the yellow torches of the work crewplayed over the body of the rocket, making it appear like somegargantuan monster pulled from the depths of the sea. It was poised onthe brink of the rill with cables encircling its body, running towinches anchored nearby. The cables would be let out, slowly, allowingthe rocket to descend into the depths of the crevice. Larkwell on theopposite side of the rill manned a power winch rigged to pull the rocketover the lip of the crevice.
"Ready on winch one?" His voice was a brittle bark, edgy with strain.Nagel spoke up.
"Ready on winch one."
"Ready on winch two?"
"Ready on winch two," Prochaska answered.
"Here we go." The line from Red Dog to Larkwell's winch tautened,jerked, then tautened once more. Red Dog seemed to quiver, and beganrolling slowly toward the brink of the rill. Crag watched from a nearbyspur of rock. He smiled wryly. Lowering rockets on the moon was gettingto be an old story. The cables and winches all seemed familiar. Well,this would be the last one they'd have to lower. He hoped. Richter stoodbeside him, silent. The rocket hung on the lip of the crevice for amoment before starting over.
"Take up slack." The lines to the anchor winches became taut and therocket hung, half-suspended in space.
"Okay." Larkwell's line tightened again and the rocket jerked clear ofthe edge, held in space by the anchor winches.
"Lower away--slowly."
Crag moved to the edge of the rill, conscious of Richter at his heels.The man's constant presence jarred him; yet, he was there by his orders.He played his torch over the rocket. It was moving into the rill in aseries of jerks. Its tail struck the ashy floor. In another moment itrested at the bottom of the crevice. They would make it. A wave ofexultation swept him. The biggest problems could be whipped if you justgot aboard and rode them. Well, he'd ridden this one--ridden it througha night of Stygian blackness and unbelievable cold. Ridden it tovictory despite damnable odds. He felt jubilant.
But they would have to hurry if they were to get all their supplies andgear moved from Bandit before the warhead struck. They still had tocover Red Dog, burying it beneath a thick coat of ash. Would that beenough? It was designed to protect them from the dangers of meteoritedust, but would it withstand the rain of hell to come when the warheadstruck? Wearily he pushed the thought from his mind.
When the others had secured their gear, he gave the signal to return toBandit. They struck out, trudging through the blackness in single file,following a serpentine path between the occasional rills and knollsscattered between the two ships. Crag swung his arms in an effort tokeep warm. Tiny needles of pain stabbed at his hands and feet, and thecold in his lungs was an agony. Even in the darkness the path betweenthe rockets had become a familiar thing.
Despite the discomfort and weariness he rather liked the long trekbetween the rockets. It gave him time to think and plan, a time whennothing was demanded of him except that he follow a reasonably straightcourse. There was no warhead, no East World menace, no Gotch. There wasonly the blackness and the solitude of Crater Arzachel. He even likedthe blackness of the lunar night, despite its attendant cold. The mantleof darkness hid the crater's ugliness, erasing its menacing profile andsoftening its features. He turned his eyes skyward as he walked. Theearth was huge, many times the size of the full moon as seen from itsmother planet, yet it seemed fragile, delicate, a pale ethereal wandererof the heavens.
Crag did not think of himself as an imaginative man. Yet when he beheldthe earth something stirred deep within him. The earth became not athing of rock and sea water and air, but a living being. He thought ofEarth as _she_. At times she was a ghost treading among the stars, awaif lost in the immensity of the universe. And at times she was awanton woman, walking in solitary splendor, her head high and proud. Thestars were her lovers. Crag walked through the night, head up, wonderingif ever again he would answer her call.
He had almost reached Bandit when Nagel's voice broke excitedly into hisearphones.
"Something's wrong with Prochaska!"
Crag stopped in his tracks, gripped by a sudden fear.
"What?"
"He was somewhere ahead of me. I just caught up to him...."
"What's wrong with him?" Crag snapped irritably. Damn, wouldn't the manstop beating around the bush?
"He's collapsed."
"Coming," Crag said. He hurried back through the darkness, cursinghimself for having let the party get strung out.
"Too late, Commander." It was Richter's voice. "His suit's deflated.Must have been a meteorite strike."
"Stay there," Crag ordered. "Larkwell...?"
"I'm backtracking too...."
They were all there when he arrived, gathered around Prochaska's huddledform. The yellow lights of their torches pinned his body against theashy plain. Larkwell, on his knees, was running his hands over theelectronic chief's body. Crag dropped to his side.
"Here it is!"
Larkwell's fingers had found the hole, a tiny rip just under theshoulder. Crag examined it, conscious that something was wrong. Itdidn't look like the kind of hole a meteorite would make. It looked, hethought, like, a small rip. The kind of a rip a knife point might make.He stared up at Larkwell. The construction boss's eyes met his and henodded his head affirmatively. Crag got to his feet and faced theGerman.
"Where were you when this happened?"
"Ahead of him," Richter answered. "We were strung out. I think I wasnext in line behind you."
Larkwell said softly: "You got here before I did. That would put youbehind me."
"I was ahead of you when we started." The German contemplated Larkwellcalmly. "I didn't see you pass me."
Crag turned to Nagel. "Where were you, Gordon?"
"At the rear, as usual." His voice was bitter.
"How far was Prochaska ahead of you?"
"I wouldn't know." He looked away into the blackness, then back to Crag."Would you expect me to?"
Crag debated. Clearly he wasn't getting anywhere with the interrogation.He looked at Nagel. The man seemed on the verge of collapse.
"We'll carry Max back. Lend a hand, Richter." His voice turned cold. "Iwant to examine that rip in the light."
The German nodded calmly.
"Stay together," Crag barked. "No stringing out Larkwell, you lead theway."
"Okay." The construction boss started toward Bandit. Nagel fell in athis heels. Crag and Richter, carrying Prochaska's body between them,brought up at the rear.
It took the last of Crag's strength before they managed to get the bodyinto the space cabin.
The men were silent while he conducted his examination. He removed thedead man's space suit, then stripped the clothing from the upper portionof his body, examining the flesh in the area where the suit had beenpunctured. The skin was unmarked. He studied the rip carefully. It was aclean slit.
"No meteorite," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was cold,dangerously low. Larkwell's face was grim. Nagel wore a dazed, almostuncomprehending expression. Richter looked thoughtful. Crag's face wasan icy mask but his thoughts were chaotic. Fear crept into his mind.This was the danger Gotch had warned him of.
Richter? The saboteur? His eyes swung from man to man, coming finally torest on the German. While he weighed the problem, one part of his mindtold him a warhead was scorching down from the sides. Time was runningout. He came to a decision. He ordered Larkwell and Richter to strip thepressure gear from Prochaska's body and carry it down to the plain.
"Well bury him later--after the warhead."
"If we're here," Larkwell observed.
"I have every intention of being here," Crag said evenly.