"Bandit would be just as safe," Larkwell persisted.
"Perhaps." He turned away from the construction boss. Richter was swinging his arms and stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. Nagel sat dejectedly on a rock, head buried in his arms. Crag felt a momentary pity for him— a pity tinged with resentment Nagel was the weak link in their armor—a threat to their safety. For all practical purposes two men—he didn't include Richter—were doing the work of three. Yet, he thought, he couldn't exclude the German. The oxygen and supplies he consumed were less than those they had obtained from Bandit and Red Dog. And Richter worked—worked with a calm, relentless purpose—more than made up for Nagel's inability to shoulder his share. Maybe Richter was a blessing in disguise. He smiled grimly at the thought. But we're all shot, he told himself—all damned tired. Someone had to be the first to cave in. So why not Nagel?
He looked skyward. The stars reminded him of glittering chunks of ice in some celestial freezebox. He moved his arms vigorously, conscious of the bitter cold gnawing at his bones—sharp needles stabbing his arms and legs. He was cold, yet his body felt clammy. He became conscious of a dull ache at the nape of his neck. Thought of the warhead stirred him to action.
"We gotta fOT 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 of Prochaska's fate burned in his mind and he kept his attention riveted on the men ahead of him. They trudged through the night, slowly; wearily following the serpentine path toward Bandit. He occasionally flicked on his torch, splaying it over the column, checking the positions of the men ahead of him. They rounded the end of a rill, half-circled the base of a small knoll, winding their way toward' Bandit. Overhead Altair formed a great triangle with Deneb and Vega. An tares gleamed red from the heart of Scorpius. Off to one side lay Sagittarius, the Archer. He thought that the giant hollow of Arzachel must be the loneliest spot in all 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 a recumbent figure while his mind registered the fact that it was the German's voice he had heard. He leaped to his side, keeping his eyes pinned on Richter until he saw the man's hands were empty. He knelt by Nagel —his suit was inflated! Crag breathed easier. He said briefly: "Exhaustion."
Richter nodded. An odd rumble sounded in Crag's earphones, rising and falling. 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 at the recumbent form, thankful they were near Bandit.
LarkweD grunted, "Gets tougher all the time."
It took the three of them to get Nagel back to the rocket. Crag pressurized the cabin and opened the sleeping man's face plate. He continued to snore, his lips vibrating with each exhalation. While he slept they gulped down food and freshened up. When they were ready to start transferring oxygen to Red Dog, Nagel was still out Crag hesitated, reluctant to leave him alone. The move could be fatal—if Nagel were the saboteur. But if it were LarkwelL he might find himself pitted against two men. The outlook wasn't encouraging. He cast one more glance at the recumbent figure and made up his mind.
"Hell be out for a long time," Larkwell commented, as if reading his mind.
"Yeah." Crag replaced Nagel's oxygen cylinder with a fresh one, closed bis face plate and opened the pressure valve on his suit He waited until the others were ready and depressurized the cabin. He climbed down the ladder thinking he would have to return before the oxygen in Nagel's cylinder was exhausted.
Each man carried three cylinders. When they reached Red Dog, Larkwell scrambled down into the rill and moved the oxygen cylinders, which Crag and Richter lowered, into the rocket through the new airlock. They increased the load to four cylinders each on the following trip, a decision Crag regretted long before they reached Red Dog. It was a rrightmarish, body-breaking trek that left him staggering with sheer fatigue. He marveled at Larkwell and Richter. Both were small men physically. 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 about at that point myself."
Nagel spoke listlessly. "Alpine sent a message."
"Oh?" Crag waited expectantly.
"Colonel Gotch. He said the latest figures indicated the rocket would strike south of Alphons at 1350 hours."
South of Alphons? How far south? It would be close, Crag thought Maybe too close. Maybe by south of Alphons Gotch meant Arzachel. Well, in that case his worries would be over. He looked at the master chrono. Time for two more trips—if they hurried.
They were malrfng their last trip to Bandit
Larkwell led the way with Crag bringing up the rear. They trudged slowly, tiredly, haunted by the shortness of time,'yet they had pushed themselves to their limit. They simply couldn't move faster.
Strange, Crag thought, there's a rocket in the sky—a warhead, a nuclear bomb hurtling down from the vastness of space—slanting in on its target The target: Adam Crag and crew. If we survive this . . . what next? The question haunted him. How much could they take? Specifically, how much could he take? He shook the mood off. He'd take what he had to take.
He thought: One more load and well hole up. The prospect of ending their toil perked up his spirits. During the time of the bomb they'd sleep—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. He flicked his torch on, shooting its beams into the darkness beyond the oxygen man. Larkwell—there was no sign of Larkwell. He quickened his pace, 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, coining 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 a meteorite? No, they would have seen him fall.
"Must have drawn ahead," Richter observed quietly. There was something in his voice that disturbed Crag.
"Why doesn't he answer?" Nagel cut in. "Why? why?"
"Larkwell! Larkwell, answer me!" Silence. A great silence. A suspicion struck 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 fight the way with his torch. The rocks made elusive shadows—shadows that danced, receded, grew and shortened by turn, until he couldn't discriminate between shadow and rock. He stumbled —fell heavily—holding his breath fearfully until he was reassured his suit hadn't ripped. After that he slowed his pace, moving more carefully. His torch was a yellow eye preceding him across the plain.
Bandit rose before him, jutting against the stars, an ominous black shadow. He moved his light, playing it over the plain. LarkweD—where was Larkwell? The yellow beam caressed the rocket, wandering over its base.
Something was wrong—dreadfully wrong. It took him an instant to realize that the rope ladder had vani
shed. He swung the torch upward. Its yellow beams framed Lark-well's body against the hatch.
"Larkwell." Crag called imperiously.
The figure in the hatch didn't move. Richter came up and stood beside him. Crag cast a helpless glance at him. The German was silent, motionless, his face turned upward toward the space cabin as if he were lost in contemplation. Crag called again, anger in his voice. There was a 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 ladder down and make it quick." The silence mocked him for a long moment before Larkwell answered.
"I'm not joking, Mister Crag." He emphasized the word Mister. There is no Larkwell. At least not here."
A fearful premonition came to Crag. He turned toward Richter. The German hadn't moved. He touched his arm and began edging back until he was well clear of the base of the rocket Nagel stood off to one side, seeming helpless and forlorn in the drama being enacted. Crag marshaled his thoughts.
"LarkweD?"
"My name is Malin ... if it interest you, Mister Crag. Igor Malin." The words were spoken in a jeer.
Crag felt the anger well inside him. AH the pent-up emotion he had suppressed since leaving earth boiled volcanicaQy until bis body shook like a leaf. The scar on his face tingled, burned, and he involuntarily reached to rub it before remembering his helmet He waited until the first
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 faithful to my country."
"You're a traitor," Crag stated coldly.
"Come, be reasonable. A traitor is one who betrays his country. You work for your side . . I work for mine. It's as simple as that." He spoke languidly but Crag knew he was laughing at him. He made an effort to control 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 became Martin Larkwell one sunny day in Buenos Aires. Part of, shall we say, a well planned tactic? No, I am not your Martin Larkwell, Mister Crag. And I'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 the country whose living representative is based here when the U.N. makes its 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 in Crag's earphones.
"You won't five 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 was Nagel. 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's enough oxygen in Red Dog."
"I opened each cylinder you handed down," the man in the hatch stated matter-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 follow Prochaska."
"You did that?" Crag's voice was a savage growl.
"This is war, Mister Crag. Prochaska was an enemy." He spoke almost conversationally. Crag had the feeling that everyone was crazy. It was a fantastic 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's mind seized on the knowledge that two automatic rifles were still in Bandit. He ordered the men back, alarmed. Nagel stood his ground screaming maledictions.
"Come back, Gordon," Crag snapped.
Malin reappeared a few seconds later holding a rifle. Crag snapped his torch 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 lunged forward 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 the base of the rocket. It stopped, pinning Nagel in a circle of light His face was turned up. He was cursing wildly, violendy.
"Nagel!" Crag shouted a warning. Nagel shook his fist toward the hatch still screaming. Flame spurted from the black rectangle and he fell, crumpled on the plain.
"Move further back," Richter said quietiy.
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.
CHAPTER 21
NAGEL WAS DEAD. He lay sprawled in the ash, a pitifully small limp bundle in a deflated suit. He had gotten his wish—he would never see earth again. Under the wide and starry sky . . . Now he was asleep with his_ dream. Asleep in the fantastically bizarre world he had come to love. But the fact still remained: Nagel had been murdered. Murdered in cold blood. Murdered by the killer of little Max Prochaska. And now the killer was in command! Crag looked down at the crumpled body, reliving the scene, feeling it bum in his brain.
Finally- he rose, filled with a terrible cold anger.
"There's one thing he forgot . . ."
"What?" Richter asked.
"The cylinders in Drone Baker. We didn't move them."
He looked at his oxygen gauge. Low. Baker lay almost four miles to the east on a trail seldom used. They had never traversed it by night. Baker, in fact, had become the forgotten drone. He probed his mind. There was a spur of intervening rock . . rills . a twisty trad threading between lofty pinnacles . . .
"Well have to hurry," Richter urged.
"Let's move . ."
They started toward the east, walking silendy, side by side, their former relationship forgotten. Crag accepted the fact that their survival, the success of his mission—Cotch's well-laid plans—could very well depend upon what Richter did. Or didn't do. He had suddenly become an integral part in the complex machine labeled STEP ONE
They reached the ridge which lay between them and the drone and started upward, climbing slowly, silently, measuring distance against time in which time represented life-sustaining oxygen. The climb over the ridge proved extremely hazardous. Despite their torches they more than once brushed sharp needles of rock and stumbled over low jagged extrusions. They were panting heavily before they reached the crest and started down the opposite side. They reached the plain and Crag checked his oxygen gauge. The reading alarmed him. He didn't say anything to Richter but speeded his" pace. The German's breath became a hoarse rumble in the earphones.
"Stopl" There was consternation in Richter's warning cry. Crag simultaneously saw the chasm yawning almost at their feet.
Richter said quietiy: "Which way?"
"Damned if I know." Crag flashed his torch into the rill. It was wide and deep, -a cleft with almost vertical sides. They would have to go around it. He flashed the light in both directions along the plain. There was no visible end to the fissure.
He studied the stars briefly and said, "East is to our right. Well have to work along the rill and gamble that it ends soon."
It did. They rounded its end and resumed their way tow
ard the east. Crag had to stop several times to get his bearings. The shadows danced before the torch beams confusing him, causing odd illusions. He fell to navigating by the stars. It occurred to him that Baker, measured against the expanse of the plain, would be but a speck of dust
Richter's voice broke reflectively into his earphones, "Oxygen's about gone. Looks like this place is going to wind up a graveyard."
Crag said stubbornly: "Well make it"
"It better be soon . . ."
"We should be about there."
They topped a small rise and dropped back to the plain. The needle of Drone Baker punctuated the sky—blotted out the stars. Oxygen . oxygen. The word was sweet music. He broke into a run, reached its base and clawed at the ladder leading to its hold. He got inside panting heavily, conscious of a slightly dizzy feeling, and grabbed die first cylinder he saw. He hooked it into his suit system before looking down toward the plain. Richter was not in sight. Filled with alarm he grabbed another cylinder and hurried down the ladder. His torch picked up Richter's form near the base of the rocket. He hooked the cylinder into his suit system and turned the valve, hoping he was in time, then flashed his torch on the German's face. He seemed to be breathing. Crag called experimentally into the earphone, without answer. He finally snapped off the torch to con* serve the battery and waited, his mind a jumble of thoughts.
"Commander P"
"Good. I was scared for a moment." He flashed the torch down. Richter's eyes were open; he was smiling faindy.
"Not a bad way to go," he managed to say. "Nice and easy."
"The only place you're going is Red Dog." "Ill be okay in a minute." "Sure you will."
Richter struggled to his feet breathing deeply. Tm okay."
"We'd better get some more oxygen—enough to last through the fireworks," Crag suggested.
They returned to the drone and procured eight cylinders, lowering them with a piece of line supplied for the purpose. They climbed down to the plain, packed the cylinders and started for Red Dog.
"Going to be close but well make it," Crag said, thinking of the warhead.
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