by Jeff Sutton
CHAPTER 20
The day of the warhead arrived.
The earth was a thin crescent in the sky whose light no longer paled thestars. They gleamed, hard and brittle against the purple-black of space,the reds and yellows and brilliant hot blues of suns lying atunimaginable distances in the vast box of the universe. Night stillgripped Crater Arzachel with its intolerable cold, but a zodiacal lightin the sky whispered of a lunar dawn to come. Measured against theincalculable scale of space distances the rocket had but a relative inchto cross. That inch was almost crossed. The rocket's speed had droppedto a mere crawl before it entered the moon's gravitational field; thenit had picked up again, moving ever faster toward its rendezvous withdestruction. Now it was storming down into the face of the land.
They buried Red Dog. Larkwell had improvised a crude scraper made ofmetal strips from the interior of Drone Baker to aid in the task. Heattached loops of cable to pull it. Crag, Larkwell and Richter wearilydragged the scraper across the plain, heaping the ash into piles, whileNagel handled the easier job of pushing them over the edge of the rill.
The unevenness of the plain and occasional rock outcroppings made thework exasperatingly slow. Crag fumed but there was little he could do torectify the situation. It took the better part of eight hours before therill was filled level with the plain, with only the extreme end of thetail containing the airlock being left accessible.
"Won't do a damn bit of good if anything big comes down," Larkwellobserved when they had finished.
"There's not much chance of a major hit," Crag conjectured. "It's thesmall stuff that worries me."
"Bandit would be just as safe," Larkwell persisted.
"Perhaps." He turned away from the construction boss. Richter wasswinging his arms and stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. Nagelsat dejectedly on a rock, head buried in his arms. Crag felt a momentarypity for him--a pity tinged with resentment. Nagel was the weak link intheir armor--a threat to their safety. For all practical purposes twomen--he didn't include Richter--were doing the work of three. Yet, hethought, he couldn't exclude the German. The oxygen and supplies heconsumed were less than those they had obtained from Bandit and Red Dog.And Richter worked--worked with a calm, relentless purpose--more thanmade up for Nagel's inability to shoulder his share. Maybe Richter was ablessing in disguise. He smiled grimly at the thought. But we're allshot, he told himself--all damned tired. Someone had to be the first tocave in. So why not Nagel?
He looked skyward. The stars reminded him of glittering chunks of ice insome celestial freezebox. He moved his arms vigorously, conscious of thebitter cold gnawing at his bones--sharp needles stabbing his arms andlegs. He was cold, yet his body felt clammy. He became conscious of adull ache at the nape of his neck. Thought of the warhead stirred him toaction.
"We gotta fill this baby," he said, speaking to no one in particular."Oxygen ... food ... gear. There's not much time left."
Larkwell snickered. "You can say that again."
Crag said thinly: "Well make it." He looked sympathetically at Nagel.
"Come on, Gordon. We gotta move."
Crag kept the men close together, in single file, with Larkwell leading.He was followed by Nagel. Crag brought up at the rear. Memory ofProchaska's fate burned in his mind and he kept his attention riveted onthe men ahead of him. They trudged through the night, slowly; wearilyfollowing the serpentine path toward Bandit. He occasionally flicked onhis torch, splaying it over the column, checking the positions of themen ahead of him. They rounded the end of a rill, half-circled the baseof a small knoll, winding their way toward Bandit. Overhead Altairformed a great triangle with Deneb and Vega. Antares gleamed red fromthe heart of Scorpius. Off to one side lay Sagittarius, the Archer. Hethought that the giant hollow of Arzachel must be the loneliest spot inall the universe. He felt numbed, drained of all motion.
"Commander."
The single imperative call snapped him to attention.
"Come quick. Something's wrong with Nagel!"
Crag leaped ahead, flashing his torch. He saw Richter's form bent over arecumbent figure while his mind registered the fact that it was theGerman's voice he had heard. He leaped to his side, keeping his eyespinned on Richter until he saw the man's hands were empty. He knelt byNagel--his suit was inflated! Crag breathed easier. He said briefly:"Exhaustion."
Richter nodded. An odd rumble sounded in Crag's earphones, rising andfalling. It took him a moment to realize it was Nagel snoring. He rose,in a secret sweat of mingled relief and apprehension, and looked down atthe recumbent form, thankful they were near Bandit.
Larkwell grunted, "Gets tougher all the time."
It took the three of them to get Nagel back to the rocket. Cragpressurized the cabin and opened the sleeping man's face plate. Hecontinued to snore, his lips vibrating with each exhalation. While heslept they gulped down food and freshened up. When they were ready tostart transferring oxygen to Red Dog, Nagel was still out. Craghesitated, reluctant to leave him alone. The move could be fatal--ifNagel were the saboteur. But if it were Larkwell, he might find himselfpitted against two men. The outlook wasn't encouraging. He cast one moreglance at the recumbent figure and made up his mind.
"He'll be out for a long time," Larkwell commented, as if reading hismind.
"Yeah." Crag replaced Nagel's oxygen cylinder with a fresh one, closedhis face plate and opened the pressure valve on his suit He waited untilthe others were ready and depressurized the cabin. He climbed down theladder thinking he would have to return before the oxygen in Nagel'scylinder was exhausted.
Each man carried three cylinders. When they reached Red Dog, Larkwellscrambled down into the rill and moved the oxygen cylinders, which Cragand Richter lowered, into the rocket through the new airlock. Theyincreased the load to four cylinders each on the following trip, adecision Crag regretted long before they reached Red Dog. It was anightmarish, body-breaking trek that left him staggering with sheerfatigue. He marveled at Larkwell and Richter. Both were small menphysically. Small but tough, he thought. Tough and durable.
Nagel was awake, waiting for them when they returned for another load.He greeted them with a slightly sheepish look. "Guess I caved in."
"That you did," Crag affirmed. "Not that I can blame you. I'm just aboutat that point myself."
Nagel spoke listlessly. "Alpine sent a message."
"Oh?" Crag waited expectantly.
"Colonel Gotch. He said the latest figures indicated the rocket wouldstrike south of Alphons at 1350 hours."
South of Alphons? How far south? It would be close, Crag thought Maybetoo close. Maybe by south of Alphons Gotch meant Arzachel. Well, in thatcase his worries would be over. He looked at the master chrono. Time fortwo more trips--if they hurried.
* * * * *
They were making their last trip to Bandit.
Larkwell led the way with Crag bringing up the rear. They trudgedslowly, tiredly, haunted by the shortness of time, yet they had pushedthemselves to their limit. They simply couldn't move faster.
Strange, Crag thought, there's a rocket in the sky--a warhead, a nuclearbomb hurtling down from the vastness of space--slanting in on its targetThe target: Adam Crag and crew. If we survive this ... what next? Thequestion haunted him. How much could they take? Specifically, how muchcould _he_ take? He shook the mood off. He'd take what he had to take.
He thought: _One more load and we'll hole up._ The prospect of endingtheir toil perked up his spirits. During the time of the bomb they'dsleep--sleep. Sleep and eat and rest and sleep some more.
Halfway to Bandit he suddenly sensed something wrong. Richter's form,ahead, was a black shadow. Beyond him, Nagel was a blob of movement. Heflicked his torch on, shooting its beams into the darkness beyond theoxygen man. Larkwell--there was no sign of Larkwell. He quickened hispace, weaving the light back and forth on both sides of their path.
"Larkwell?" His voice was imperative.
No answer.
"Larkwell?
" Silence mocked him. Richter stopped short. Nagel turned,coming toward him in the night.
"Where's Larkwell?"
"He was ahead of me." It was Nagel.
Richter shrugged. "Can't see that far ahead."
Crag's thoughts came in a jumbled train. Had Larkwell been hit by ameteorite? No, they would have seen him fall.
"Must have drawn ahead," Richter observed quietly. There was somethingin his voice that disturbed Crag.
"Why doesn't he answer?" Nagel cut in. "Why? why?"
"Larkwell! Larkwell, answer me!" Silence. A great silence. A suspicionstruck his mind. Crag caught his breath, horrified at the thought.
"Let's get moving--fast." He struck out in the direction of Bandit,forcing his tired legs into a trot. His boots struck against the plain,shooting needles of pain up his legs. His body grew sweaty and clammy,hot and cold by turn. A chill foreboding gripped him. He tried to lightthe way with his torch. The rocks made elusive shadows--shadows thatdanced, receded, grew and shortened by turn, until he couldn'tdiscriminate between shadow and rock. He stumbled--fell heavily--holdinghis breath fearfully until he was re-assured his suit hadn't ripped.After that he slowed his pace, moving more carefully. His torch was ayellow eye preceding him across the plain.
Bandit rose before him, jutting against the stars, an ominous blackshadow. He moved his light, playing it over the plain. Larkwell--wherewas Larkwell? The yellow beam caressed the rocket, wandering over itsbase.
Something was wrong--dreadfully wrong. It took him an instant to realizethat the rope ladder had vanished. He swung the torch upward. Its yellowbeams framed Larkwell's body against the hatch.
"Larkwell." Crag called imperiously.
The figure in the hatch didn't move. Richter came up and stood besidehim. Crag cast a helpless glance at him. The German was silent,motionless, his face turned upward toward the space cabin as if he werelost in contemplation. Crag called again, anger in his voice. There wasa moment of silence before a voice tinkled in his earphones.
"Larkwell? There's no Larkwell here." The words were spoken slowly,tauntingly.
Crag snapped wrathfully: "This is no time to be joking. Toss that ladderdown and make it quick." The silence mocked him for a long moment beforeLarkwell answered.
"I'm not joking, Mister Crag." He emphasized the word _Mister_. "Thereis no Larkwell. At least, not here."
A fearful premonition came to Crag. He turned toward Richter. The Germanhadn't moved. He touched his arm and began edging back until he was wellclear of the base of the rocket. Nagel stood off to one side, seeminghelpless and forlorn in the drama being enacted. Crag marshaled histhoughts.
"Larkwell?"
"My name is Malin ... if it interest you, Mister Crag. Igor Malin." Thewords were spoken in a jeer.
Crag felt the anger well inside him. All the pent-up emotion he hadsuppressed since leaving earth boiled volcanically until his body shooklike a leaf. The scar on his face tingled, burned, and he involuntarilyreached to rub it before remembering his helmet. He waited until thefirst tremors had passed, then spoke, trying to keep his voice calm.
"You're disturbed, Larkwell. You don't know what you're doing."
"No? You think not?"
Crag bit his lip vexedly. He spoke again:
"So, you're our saboteur?"
"Call me that, if you wish."
"And a damned traitor!"
"Not a traitor, Mister Crag. To the contrary, I have been very faithfulto my country."
"You're a traitor," Crag stated coldly.
"Come, be reasonable. A traitor is one who betrays his country. You workfor your side ... I work for mine. It's as simple as that." He spokelanguidly but Crag knew he was laughing at him. He made an effort tocontrol his his temper.
"You were born in the United States," Crag pursued.
"Wrong again."
"Raised in the Maple Hill Orphanage. I have your personnel record."
"Ah, that _was_ your Martin Larkwell." The voice taunted. "But I becameMartin Larkwell one sunny day in Buenos Aires. Part of, shall we say, awell planned tactic? No, I am not your Martin Larkwell, Mister Crag. AndI'm happy enough to be able to shed his miserable identity."
"What do you expect to gain?" Crag asked. He kept his voice reasonable,hedging for time.
"Come, now, Mister Crag, you know the stakes. The moon goes to thecountry whose living representative is based here when the U.N. makesits decision--which should be soon. Note that I said _living_."
"Most of the supplies are in Red Dog," Crag pointed out.
"There's enough here for one man." The voice was maddeningly bland inCrag's earphones.
"You won't live through the rockstorm," Crag promised savagely.
"The chances of a direct hit are pretty remote. You said that yourself."
"Maybe...."
"That's good enough for me."
"Damn you, Larkwell, you can't do this. Throw that ladder down." It wasNagel. Again the scream came over the earphones: "Throw it down, I say."
"You've made a mistake," Crag cut in calmly. "We can survive. There'senough oxygen in Red Dog."
"I opened each cylinder you handed down," the man in the hatch statedmatter-of-factly. "In fact, I opened all of the cylinders in Red Dog.Sorry, Mister Crag, but the oxygen's all gone. Soon you'll followProchaska."
"You did that?" Crag's voice was a savage growl.
"This is war, Mister Crag. Prochaska was an enemy." He spoke almostconversationally. Crag had the feeling that everyone was crazy. It was afantastic mixed-up dream, a nightmare. Soon he'd awaken....
"Coward!" Nagel screamed. "Coward--damned coward!"
The figure in the hatch vanished into the rocket. He's armed! Crag'smind seized on die knowledge that two automatic rifles were still inBandit. He ordered the men back, alarmed. Nagel stood his groundscreaming maledictions.
"Come back, Gordon," Crag snapped.
Malin reappeared a few seconds later holding a rifle. Crag snapped historch off, leaving the plain in darkness.
"Move back," he ordered again.
"I won't. I'm going to get into that rocket," Nagel babbled. He lungedforward and was lost in the darkness before Crag could stop him.
"Nagel, get back here! That's an order."
"I won't ... I won't!" His scream was painful in Crag's ears.
A yellow beam flashed down from the hatch and ran over the ground at thebase of the rocket. It stopped, pinning Nagel in a circle of light. Hisface was turned up. He was cursing wildly, violently.
"Nagel!" Crag shouted a warning. Nagel shook his fist toward the hatchstill screaming. Flame spurted from the black rectangle and he fell,crumpled on the plain.
"Move further back," Richter said quietly.
Crag stood indecisively.
Richter spoke more imperatively. "He's gone. Move back--while you can."
"Happy dreams, Mister Crag ... and a long sleep." The hatch closed.