Jeff Sutton (27 page)

"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 vanished. 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 toward 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 . .
."