Jeff Sutton (7 page)

"Pretty
rough," Crag said sympathetically. His voice, in the new-bom silence,
possessed a curious muffled effect. "We're past the worst"

Nagel's lips twisted
derisively.
"Yeah?"

The
querulous tone grated Crag and he turned back to the controls.
Every minor irritant assume major proportions.
That's what Doc Weldon had
warned. Well, damnit, he wouldn't let Nagel get him down. Besides, what was his
gripe? They were all in the same boat. He turned to the instrument console,
checking the myriad of dials, gauges and scopes. Everything seemed normal, if
there was such a thing as normalcy in space. He said reflectively, speaking to
no one in particular:

"Maybe
I should have been more truthful with the Colonel before taking on this damned
job of moon pilot. There's something I didn't tell him."

"What?" Prochaska's face was
startled.

"I've, never been to the moon
before."

CHAPTER 5

"Alpine
wants a private confab," Prochaska said.
His voice was ominous.
"Probably another stinker."

"Again?"
Crag plugged in his ear insert microphone thinking he wasn't going to
like what he'd hear. Just when things had started looking smooth too. He cut
Prochaska out of the system and acknowledged.

"Crag?"
Gotch's voice was brittie, hard. He looked sideways at Prochaska, who
was studiously examining one of the instruments, trying to give him the privacy
demanded. He shifted his head. Larkwell was standing at the side port with his
back toward him. Nagel lay back in his seat, eyes closed.

/ Crag answered softly. "Shoot"

"More
bad news," Gotch reported somberly. "Burning Sands picked a package
out of Drone Able just before launch time. It's just been identified."

"Check,"
he replied, trying to assimilate what Gotch was telling him.

Gotch
stated flatly. "It was a time bomb. Here's a description. Bomb was
packaged in a flat black plastic case about one by four inches.
Probably not big enough to wreck the drone but big enough to
destroy the controls.
It was found tucked in the wiring of the main
jtaneL Got that?"

"Check."

"The
bomb squad hasn't come through with full details yet. If you find a mate, don't
try to disarm it Dump it, pronto!"

"Can't.
It'll stay with us."

"
It's
size indicates it wouldn't be fatal if it exploded outside
the hull," Gotch rasped. "It was designed to wreck controls. If you
find one, dump it
That's
an order." The

earphones
were silent. Crag was swiveling toward Prochaska when they came to life again.

"One other thing.''
Gotch was silent for a moment. Crag pictured him carefully framing his
words. "It means that the situation is worse than we thought," he
said finally.

"They
haven't left anything to chance. If you have a bomb, it was carried there after
the final security check. Do you follow me?"

"Yeah," Crag answered thoughtfully.
He sat for a moment, debating what to do. Prochaska didn't ask any questions.
Gotch was telling him that the Aztec might be mined. Wait, what else had he
said?
The bomb was carried
there after the security check.
That spelled traitor. The Aztec had been shaken down too often and too
thoroughly for Intelligence to have muffed. It would have to have been planted
at the last moment
If
there was a bomb. He'd better
keep quiet until Gotch's suspicions were proven false—or verified.

He
turned toward Prochaska, keeping his voice low. "Search the console
panels—every inch of them."

He
looked around. Nagel and Larkwell were back in their seats. Nagel seemed
asleep, but Larkwells face was speculative. Crag's eyes swept the cabin. Spare
oxygen tanks, packaged pressure suits, water vents, chemical commode, the algae
chamber and spare chemicals to absorb carbon dioxide in case the algae system
failed—these and more items filled every wall, cupboard, occupied every cubic
inch of space beyond the bare room needed for human movement. Where was the
most sensitive spot?
The controls.
He sighed and
turned back to the panels.

Prochaska
was methodically running his hands through the complex of wiring under the
instrument panels. His face was a question, the face of a man who didn't know
what he was looking for. He decided not to tell him ' yet. His earphones gave a
burst of static followed by the Colonel's hurried voice.

"Burning
Sands reports packaged timed for 0815,"
he snapped. "That's eight minutes away. Get on the ball. If you've got one
there, it's probably a twin."

"Okay,"
Crag acknowledged. "Adios, we've got work to do." He swung toward
Nagel.

"Break
out the pressure suits," he barked. "Lend him a hand, Larkwell."

Nagel's eyes opened.
"Pressure suits?"

"Check. We may need
them in a couple of minutes."

"But-"

"Get
to it," Crag rasped. "It may be a matter of life or death." He
turned. Prochaska was still examining the wiring. No time to search the rest of
the cabin, he thought. It might be anywhere. It would have to be the panels or
nothing. Besides, that was the most logical place. He went to the Chiefs
assistance, searching the panels on his side of the board, pushing his fingers
gentiy between the
maze
of wiring. Nothing below the
analog, the engine instruments, the radar altimeter. He glanced at the
chronometer and began to sweat. The hands on the dial seemed to be racing.
Prochaska finished his side of the console and looked sideways at him. Better
tell him, Crag thought

He
said calmly.
"Time bomb.
Burning Sands says, if
we have one, it may blow in—" he glanced hurriedly at the
chronometer—"five minutes."

Prochaska
looked hurriedly at the array ef gear lining the bulkheads.

"Probably
in the controls, if we have one." Crag finished the panels on his side
without any luck. Prochaska hastily started re-examining the wiring. Crag
followed after him. A moment later his fingers found it, a smooth flat case
deeply imbedded between the wiring. Prochaska had gone over that panel a moment
before! The thought struck him even as he moved it out, handling it gingerly.
Prochaska showed his surprise. Crag glanced at Nagel and LarkwelL They had the
suits free. He laid the bomb on the console. Larkwell saw it. His face showed
understanding. He heaved one of the suits to Prochaska and a second one to
Crag. They hurriedly donned them. Space limitations made it an awkward task.
Crag kept his eyes on the chronometer. The hand seemed to whiz across the dial.
He began to sweat, conscious that he was breathing heavily.

"Short
exposure," he rapped out.
"Minimum
pressure."
He slipped on his helmet, secured it to the
neck ring and snapped on the face plate. He turned the oxygen valve and felt
the pressure build up within the suit and helmet. The chronometer showed two
minutes to go. He snapped a glance around. Nagel peered at him through his
thick face plate with a worried expression. Larkwell's hps were compressed
against his teeth. His jaws worked spasmodically. Both were waiting, tense,
watching him.

Prochaska
was the last to finish. Crag waited impatiendy for him to switch on his oxygen
valve before picking up the bomb. He motioned the others to stand back and
began opening the dogs which secured the escape hatch. He hesitated on the
last one. The escaping air could whisk him into space in a flash. The same
thing had happened to crewmen riding in bubbles that broke at high altitude.
Whoosh! He'd be gone! Conceivably, it could suck the cabin clean. Fortunately
their gear had been secured as protection against the high g forces of escape.
Too late to lash himself with the seat harnessing.
Time was
running out Panic touched his mind. Calm down, Crag, he told himself. Play it
cool, boy.

Prochaska
saw his dilemma at the same instant. He squatted on the deck and thrust his
legs straight out from the hips, straddling one of the seat supports. Larkwell
and Nagel hurriedly followed suit Crag cast a backward glance at the
chronometer—a minute and ten seconds to go! He threw himself to one side of the
hatch, squatted and hooked an arm into a panel console, hoping it was strong
enough.

He
laid the bomb on the deck next to the hatch and reached up with his free hand,
held his breath, hesitated, and jarred the last dog loose.

The
hatch exploded open. A giant claw seemed to grab his body, pulling him toward thé
opening. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving him weak, breathless. The
bomb had been whisked into space. He got to his feet and grasped the hatch
combing, looking out. It was a giddy, vertiginous moment. Before him
yawned
a great purple-black maw, a blacker purple than that
seen through the view ports. It was studded with unbelievably brilliant stars,
a gleam with the hard luster of diamonds—white diamonds and blue sapphires.

Something
bright blinked in space.

He
hesitated. The cold was already coming through his suit. He remembered he
hadn't turned on either the heating element or interphone system. He drew the
hatch shut and dogged it down, then switched both on. The others saw his
movements and followed suit.

"See
anything?" Prochaska was the first to ask. His voice sounded tinny and far
away. Crag adjusted his amplifier and said grimly:

"It blew."

"How
. .
how
did it get
here?" He identified the voice as Nagel's.

He
snapped brusquely, "That's what I'm going to find out." Larkwell was
silent Nagel began fiddling with the oxygen valves. They waited, quietly, each
absorbed in his thoughts until Nagel indicated it was safe to remove their
suits. Crag's thoughts raced while he shucked the heavy garments. It's past, he
thought, but the saboteur's still here. Who? He flicked his eyes over the men.
Who? That's what he had to find out—soon! When the suit was off, he hurriedly
put through a call to Gotch, reporting what had happened.

The Colonel listened without comment When
Crag finished, he was silent for a moment. Finally he replied:

"Here's
where we stand. We will immediately comb the record of every intelligence agent
involved in the last shakedown. Well also recomb the records of the Aztec
crew, including yours. I've got to tell you this because it's serious. If
there's a saboteur aboard—and I think there is—then the whole operation's in
jeopardy. It'll be up to you to keep your eyes open and analyze your men. We've
tried to be careful. We've checked everyone involved back to birth. But there's
always the sleeper. It's happened before."

"Check,"
Crag said. "I only hope yon don't catch up with all my early
peccadillos."

"This
is no time to be funny.
Now, some more news for you.
Washington reports that the enemy launched another missile this morning."

"Another one?"
Crag sighed softly. This time there would be no satelloid, no Pickering
to give his life.

The
Colonel continued grimly. "Radar indicates this is a different land of
rocket. Its rate of climb
...
its trajectory . . . indicates it's manned. Now it's a race."

Crag thought a moment.
"Any sign of a drone with it?"

"No,
that's the surprising part, if this is a full-scale attempt at establishing a
moon base. And we believe it is."

Crag
asked sharply. "It couldn't be their atom-powered job?" The
possibility filled him with alarm.

"Positively
not
We've
got our finger squarely on that one and it's
a good year from launch-date. No, this is a conventional
rocket
.
.
perhaps
more advanced than we 'had believed
. ." His voice dropped off. "Well keep you posted," he added
after a minute.

"Roger."
Crag sighed. He removed the earphone reflectively. He wouldn't tell the others
yet. Now that they were in space maybe . . . just maybe
...
he could find time to catch his breath.
Damn, they hadn't anticipated all this during mdoctrination. The
intercept-missile . . . time
bomb .
.
possible
traitor in the crew. What more could go wrong? For
just a second he felt an intense hostility toward Cotch. An Air Force full of
pilots and he had to pick him —and he wasn't even in the
Air
Force at the time. Lord, he should have contented himself with jockeying
a jet airliner on some nice quiet hop. Like between L. A. and Pearl . . . with
a girl at each end of the run.

He
thought wistfully about the prospect while he made a routine check of the
instruments. Cabin pressure
normal .
.
temperature
78 degrees F. . . nothing alarming in the
radiation and.meteor impact readings.
Carbon dioxide content
normal.
Things might get routine after all, he thought moodily.
Except for one thing.
The new rocket flashing
skyward from east of the Caspian.
One thing he was sure of. It spelled
trouble.

CHAPTER 6

The U.
S.
Navy's
Space" Scan Radar Station No. 5 picked
up the new rocket before it was fairly into space. It clung to it with an
electromagnetic train, bleeding -it of data. The information was fed into
computers, digested, analyzed and transferred to Alpine Base, and thence
telemetered to the Aztec where it appeared as a pip on the analog display. The
grid had automatically adjusted to a 500-mile scale with the positions of the
intruder and Aztec separated by almost the width of the instrument face. The
Aztec seemed to have a clear edge in the race for the moon. Prochaska became
aware of the newcomer but refrained from questions, nor did Crag volunteer any
information.

Just now he wasn't worrying about the East
World rocket
Not
at this point. With Drone Able riding
to starboard, the Aztec was moving at an ever slower rate of speed. It would
continue to decelerate, slowed by the earth's pull as it moved outward,
traveling on inertial force since the silencing of its engines. By the time it
reached the neutral zone where the moon and earth gravispheres canceled each
other, the Aztec would have just enough speed left to coast into the moon's
field of influence. Then it would accelerate again, picking up speed until
slowed by its braking rockets. That was the hour that occupied his thoughts—a
time when he would be called upon for split-second decisions coming in waves.

He
tried to anticipate every contingency. The mass ratio necessary to inject the
Aztec into its moon trajectory had precluded fuel beyond the absolute
minimum
needed. The rocket would approach the moon in
an elliptical path, correct its heading to a north-south line relative to the
planet and decelerate in a tight spiral. At a precise point in space he would
have to start using the braking rockets, slow the ship until they occupied an
exact point in the infinite space-time continuum, then let down into
cliff-brimmed ArzacheL a bleak, airless, utterly alien wasteland with but one
virtue: Uranium.
That and the fact that it represented the
gateway to the Solar System.