Jeff Sutton

by First on the Moon

  The man he'd shot was a motionless blob on the rocky floor, his arms and legs pulled up in a grotesque fetal position. The vulnerability of human life on the moon struck Crag forcibly. A bullet hole anywhere meant sudden violent death. A hit on the finger was as fatal as a shot through the heart Once air pressure in a suit was lost a man was dead —horribly dying within seconds. A pinhole in the suit was enough to do it. His eyes searched for the dead man's companions. The ridge and plain seemed utterly lifeless. Bandit was a black canted monolith rising above the plain, seeming to symbolize the utter desolation and silence of Crater Arzachel. For a moment he was fascinated. The very scene portended death. It was an eery feeling. He shook it off and waited. He was finally rewarded by movement. A portion of rock near the edge of the'plain seemed to rise-took shape. The dead man's companion had risen to a kneeling position, holding his rifle to his shoulder.

  Crag raised his gun, wondering if he could hold the man in his sights. A hundred and fifty yards to a rifleman clothed in a cumbersome space suit seemed a long way. Before he could pull the trigger, the man flung his arms outward, clawing at his throat for an instant before slumping to the rocks. It took Crag a second to comprehend what had happened. Prochaska had been ready.

  A figure suddenly filled the dark rectangle of Bandit, pointing''toward the ridge behind Crag. He apparently was trying to tell him something. Crag scanned the ridge. It seemed deserted. He turned toward Bandit and motioned toward his faceplate. The other understood. His interphones crackled to life. Prochaska's voice was welcome.

  "I see him," he broke in. "He's moving up the slope to your right, trying to reach the top of the ridge. Too far for a shot," he added.

  Crag scrambled into a clearing and scanned the ridge, just in time to see a figure disappear over .the skyline. He started up the slope in a beeline for the crest. If he could reach it in time, he might prevent the sniper from crossing the open plain which lay between the ridge and Red Dog. Cops and robbers, he thought. Another childhood game had suddenly been recreated, this time on the bleak plain of an airless alien crater 240,000 miles from the sunny Southern California lands of his youth.

  Crag reached the ridge. The plain on the other side seemed devoid of life. In the distance the squat needle that was Red Dog jutted above the ashy plain, an incongruous human artifact lost on the wastelands of the moon. Only its symmetry distinguished it from the jagged monolithic structures that dotted this end of the crater floor. He searched the slope. Movement far down the knoll to his right caught his eye. The fugitive was trying to reach a point beyond range of Crag's weapon before cutting across the plain. He studied the terrain. Far ahead and to the left of the invader the crater floor became broken by bizarre rock formations of Backbone Ridge—a great half-circle which arced back toward Red Dog. He guessed that the fantastic land ahead was the fugitive's goal.

  He cut recklessly down the opposite slope and gained the floor of the crater before turning in the direction he had last seen the invader. He cursed himself for having lost sight of him. Momentarily, he slowed his pace, thinking he was ripe for a bushwhacking job. His eyes roved the terrain. No movement, no sign of his quarry. He moved quickly, but warily, attempting to search every inch of the twisted rock formations covering the slope ahead. His eye detected movement off to one side. At the same instant a warning sounded in his brain and he flung himself downward and to the side, hitting the rough ground with a sickening thud. He sensed that the action had saved his life. He crawled between some rock outcroppings, hugging the ground until he reached a vantage point overlooking the area ahead. He waited, trying to search the slope without exposing his position. Minutes passed.

  He tossed his head resdessly. His eyes roved the plain, searching, attempting to discern movement. No movement-only a world of still life-forms. The plain—its rocks and rills—stretched before him, barren and endless. Strange, he thought, there should be vultures in the sky. And on the plain creosote bushes, purple sage, cactus . . . coyotes and rattlesnakes.

  But . . no! This was an other-world desert, one spawned in the fires of hell—a never-never land of scalding heat and unbelievable cold. He thought it was like a painting by some mad artist. First he had sketched in the plain with infinite care—a white-black, monotonous, unbroken expanse. Afterward he had splashed in the rocks, painting with wild abandon, heedless of design, form or structure, until the plain was a hodgepodge of bizarre formations. They towered, squatted, pierced the sky, crawled along the plain like giant serpents—an orgy in rock without rhyme or reason. Somewhere in the lithic jungle his quarry waited. He would flush him out.

  He thought that the sniper must be getting low on oxygen. He couldn't afford to waste time. He had to reach Red Dog soon—if he were to live. Crag checked his oxygen meter and began moving forward, conscious that the chase would be governed by his oxygen supply. He'd have to remember that.

  He reached a clearing on the slope just as the sniper disappeared into the rock shadows on the opposite side. He hesitated. Would the pursued man be waiting . covering the trail behind him? He decided not to chance crossing it and began skirting around its edge, fretting at the minutes wasted. His earphones crackled and Prochaska's voice came, a warning through the vacuum:

  "Nagel says your oxygen must be low." ■>

  He glanced at the indicator on his cylinder. Still safe. He studied the rocks ahead and told Frochaska:

  Tve got to keep this baby from reaching Red Dog."

  "Watch yourself. Don't go beyond the point of no return.'' Prochaska's voice held concern.

  "Stop worrying."

  Crag pushed around the edge of the clearing with reckless haste. It was hard going and he was panting heavily long before he reached the spot where he had last seen the sniper.

  He paused to catch his breath. The slope fell away beneath him, a miniature kingdom of jagged needle-sharp rock. There was no sign of the fugitive. The plain, too, was devoid of life. He descended to the edge of the clearing and picked his way through the debris of some eon-old geologic catastrophe. Ahead and to the left of the ridge, the plain was broken by shallow rills and weird rock outcrop-pings. Farther out Backbone Ridge began as low mounds of stone, becoming twisted blade stalagmites hunched incongruously against the floor of the crater, ending as jagged sharp needles of rock curving over the plain in a huge arc.

  A moment later he caught sight of his quarry. The invader had cut down to the edge of the plain, abandoning the protection of the ridge, making a beeline for the nearest rock extrusion on the floor of the crater. Too far away for a shot. Crag cursed and made a quick judgment, deciding to risk the open terrain in hopes of gaining shelter before the sniper was aware of his strategy.

  He abandoned the protection of the slope and struck out in a straight line toward the distant mounds on the floor of the crater, keeping his eyes on the fugitive. They raced across the clearing in parallel paths, several hundred yards apart. The sniper had almost reached the first rocks when he glanced back. He saw Crag and put on an extra burst of speed, reaching the first rocks while Crag was still a hundred yards from the nearest mound. Crag dropped to the ground, thankful that it was slightly uneven. At best he'd make a poor target. He crawled, keeping his body low, tossing his head in an effort to shake the perspiration from his eyes.

  "How you doing, skipperr" It was Frochaska. Lousy, Crag thought. He briefed him without slowing his pace.

  The ashy plain just in front of him spurted in little fountains of white dust He dropped flat on his belly with a gasp.

  "You all rightf"

  "Okay," Crag gritted. "This boy's just using me for target practice." Prochaska's voice became alarmed. He urged him to retreat

  "We can get them some other way," he said.

  "Not if they once get that launcher in operation. I'm moving on." There was a moment of silence.

  "Okay, skipper, but watch yourself." His voice was reluctant. "And watch your oxygen.

  "Roger." He checked his gauge and hurriedly s
witched to the second cylinder. Now he was on the last one. The trick would be to stretch his .oxygen out until the chase was ended—until the man ahead was a corpse.

  He clung to the floor of the crater, searching for shelter. The ground rose slightiy to his right He crawled toward the rise, noting that the terrain crested high enough to cut his view of the base of the rocks. Satisfied that he was no longer visible, he began inching his way toward the nearest mounds.

  CHAPTER 16

  CRAG STUDIED the- scene. He lay at one end of the great crescent of rock forming Backbone Ridge, the other end of which ended about half a mile from Red Dog. The floor of the crater between the rocket and the nearest rock formations was fairly level and unbroken. The arced formation itself was a veritable jungle of rocks of every type—gnarled, twisted rock that hugged the ground, jutting black pinnacles piercing the sky, bizarre bubble formations which appeared like weird ebony esldrno cities, and great fantastic ledges which extruded from the earth at varying angles, forming black caves against their bases. :

  Whole armies could hide there, he thought. Only the fugitive couldn't hide. Oxygen was still the paramount issue. He'd have to thread his way through the terrible rock jungle to the distant tip of the crescent, then plunge across the open plain to the rocket if he hoped to survive. The distance between the horns of the crescent appeared about three miles. He pondered it thoughtfully, then got on the interphones and outlined his plan to Prochaska.

  "Okay, I know better than to argue," the Chief said dolefully when he had finished. "But watch your oxygen." Damn the oxygen, Crag thought irritably. He studied the labyrinth of rock into which his quarry had vanished, then rose and started across the plain in a direct line for the opposite tip of the crescent.

  The first moments were the hardest. After that he knew he must be almost out of range of the sniper's weapon. Perhaps, even, the other had not seen his maneuver. He forced himself into a slow trot, his breath whistling in his ears and his body sodden inside his suit. Perspiration stung his eyes, his leg muscles ached almost intolerably, and every movement seemed made on sheer will power. The whimsical thought crossed his mind that Gotch had never painted this side of the picture. Nor was it mentioned in the manual of space survival.

  He was thankful that the plain between the two tips of the crescent was fairly even. He moved quickly, but it was a long time before he reached the further tip of the crescent He wondered if he had been observed from Red Dog. Well, no matter, he thought. He had cut the sniper's sole avenue of escape. Victory over his quarry was just a matter of time, a matter of waiting for him to appear. He picked a vantage point, a high rocky ledge which commanded all approaches to his position. After briefing Frochaska, he setded back to wait, thinking that the fugitive must be extremely low on oxygen.

  Long, minutes passed. Once or twice he thought he saw movement among the rocks and started to lift his rifle; but there was no movement. Illusions, he told himself. His eyes were playing him tricks. The bizarre sea of rocks confronting him was a study in black and white—the intolerable light of sun-struck surfaces contrasting with the Stygian blackness of the shadows. His eyes began to ache and he shifted them from time to time to shut out the glare. He was sweating again and there was a dull ache at the back of his head. Precious time was fleeing. He'd have to resolve the chase—soon.

  All at once he saw movement that was not an illusion. He half rose, raising his rifle when dust spurted from the ground a few feet to his left. He cursed and threw himself to the ground, rolling until he was well below the ridge. One thing was certain: the sniper had the ridge well under control. The Red Dog watcher must have warned him, he thought. He looked around. Off to one side a small rill cut through the rocks running in the sniper's general direction. He looked back toward the ridge, hesitated, then decided to gamble on the rill. He moved crablike along the side of the slope until he reached its edge and peered over. The bottom was a pool of darkness. He lowered himself over the edge with some misgivings, searching for holds with his hands and feet. His boot unexpectedly touched bottom.

  Crag stood for a moment on the floor of the rill. His body was clothed in black velvet shadows but it was shallow enough to leave his head in the sunlight. He moved cautiously forward, half expecting the sniper to appear in front of him. His nerves were taut, edgy.

  Relax, boy, you're strung like a violin, he told himself. Take it easy.

  A bend in the rill cut off the sun leaving him in a well of blackness. He hadn't counted on that. Before he'd moved another dozen steps he realized the rill wasn't the answer. He'd have to chance getting back into the open. More time was lost. He felt the steep sides until he located a series of breaks in the walk then slung his rifle over his shoulder and inched upward until his head cleared the edge. The sun's sudden glare blinded him. Involuntarily he jerked his head sideways, almost losing his hold in the process. He clung to the wall for a moment before laboriously pulling his body over the edge.

  He lay prone against the rocks, half-expecting to be greeted by a hail of bullets. He waited quietly, without moving, then carefully raised his head. Off to one side was a series of mounds. He crawled toward them without moving bis belly from the ground. When he reached the first one, he half rose and scuttled forward until he found a view of the twisted rocks where he had last seen the sniper.

  The scene ahead was a still-life painting. It seemed incongruous that somewhere among the quiet rocks death moved in the form of a man. He decided against penetrating further into the tangle of rocks. He'd wait. He settled back, conscious that time was fleeing.

  "Skipper, are you cheeking your oxygen?" The Chief's voice rattled against his eardrums. It was filled with alarm.

  "Listen, I have no time—" Crag started to growl. His words were clipped short as his eyes involuntarily took the reading of his oxygen gauge. Low . low. He calculated quickly. He was well past the point of no return—too low to make the long trip back to Bandit. He was done, gone, a plucked gosling. He had bought himself a coffin and he'd rest there for all eternity—boxed in by the weird tombstones of Crater ArzacheL Adam Crag—the Man in the Moon.

  He grinned wryly. Well, at least his quarry was going with him. He wouldn't greet his Maker empty handed. He tersely informed Prochaska of his predicament, then recklessly moved to a high vantage point and scanned the rocks beyond.

  He had to make every second count. Light and shadow

  . . light and shadow. Somewhere in the crisscross of light and shadow was a man-form, a blob of protoplasm like himself, a living thing that had to be stamped out before the last of his precious oxygen was gone. He was the executioner. Somewhere ahead a doomed man waited in the docks waited for nim, to come. They were two men from opposite sides of the world, battling to death in Hell's own backyard. Only he'd win . win before he died.

  He was scanning the rocky tableau when the sniper moved into his field of vision, far to one side of Crag's position. He was running with short choppy steps, threading between the rocks toward Red Dog. His haste and apparent disregard of exposing himself puzzled Crag for a moment, then he smiled grimly. Almost out of oxygen, he thought. WelL that makes two of us. But he still had to make sure his quarry died. The thought spurred him to action.

  He turned and scrambled back toward the tip of Backbone Ridge to cut the sniper's escape route. He reached the end rocks and waited. A few moments later he sighted a figure scrambling toward him. He raised his rifle thinking it was too far for a shot, then lowered it again. The sniper began moving more slowly and cautiously, then became lost to sight in a maze of rock outeroppings.

  Crag waited impatiendy, aware that precious moments were fleeing. He was afraid to look at his gauge, plagued by the sense of vanishing moments. Time was running out and eternity was drawing near—near to Adam Crag as well as the sniper. The rocks extended before him, a kaleidoscopic pattern of black and white. Somewhere in the tortuous labyrinth was the man he had to kill before he himself died. He watched nervously, trying to suppre
ss the tension pulling at his muscles. A nerve in his cheek twitched and he shook his head without removing his eyes from the rocks ahead. Still there was no sign of the other.

  Who was the stalker and who was the stalked? The question bothered him. Perhaps even at that instant the sniper was drawing bead. Then he'd be free to reach Red Dog —safety.

  Crag decided he couldn't wait. He'd have to seek the other out, somehow flush him from cover. He looked around. Off to one side a shelf of black rock angled incongruously into the sky. Its sides were steep but its top would command all approaches to the tip of the crescent. He made his way to the base of the shelf and began scrambling up its steep sides, finding it difficult to manage toe and hand holds. He slipped from time to time, hanging desperately on to keep himself from rolling back to the rocks below. Just below the top he rested, panting, fighting for breath, conscious of his heart thudding in his ears. He had to hurry I

  Slowly, laboriously he pulled himself up the last few feet and lay panting atop the shelf, none too soon. The sniper scrambled out of the rocks a scant hundred yards from Crag's position. He raised his rifle, then hesitated. The Red Dog crewman had fallen to his hands and knees and was fighting to rise. He pushed his hands against the plain in an attempt to get his feet under him. Crag lowered his rifle and watched curiously.

  The sniper finally succeeded in getting to his feet. He stood for a moment, weaving, before moving toward Crag's shelf with a faltering zigzag gait. Crag raised the rifle and tried to line the sights. He had difficulty holding the weapon steady. He started to pull the trigger when the man fell again. Crag hesitated. The sniper floundered in the ash, managed to pull himself half-erect. He weaved with a few faltering steps and plunged forward on his face.