Jeff Sutton (24 page)

"Could
be," he replied noncornmittally. He didn't seem pleased that Richter was
intruding in a sphere which he considered his own.

Crag
gave a last look at the silhouette of the fallen giant on the plain and
announced: "Well try it."

"If
it doesn't work, we're in the soup," Larkwell insisted. "Suppose
there are more breaks?"

"Well
patch those, too," Crag snapped. He felt an unreasonable surge of anger
toward the construction boss. He sucked his lip, vexedfy,
then
turned his torch on his oxygen meter. "We'd better get moving."

CHAPTER 18

Colonel Michael Cotch
looked at die agent across the narrow expanse
of his battered desk,
then
his eyes fell again to the
dockets. Four "dockets, four small sheaves of paper, each the capsuled
story of a man's life. The names on the dockets were literally burned into his
mind: Adam Philip Crag, Martin LeRoy Larkwell, Cordon Wells Nagel,
Max
Edward Prochaska.
Four names, four ^
men, four separate egos who, by the magic of man, had been transported to a
bleak haven on another world.
Four men whose task was to survive an
alien hell until the U.N. officially recognized the United States' claim to
sovereignty over the stark lands of the moon.

But
one of the men was a saboteur, an agent whose task was to destroy the Western
claim to ownership by destroying its occupancy of the moon. That would leave
the East free to claim at least equal sovereignty on the basis that it, too,
had established occupancy in a lunar base.

The
agent broke into his thoughts. "I'd almost stake my professional
reputation he's your man." He reached over and tapped one of the dockets
significantly.

"The
word, the single word, that's what you used to teD me to watch for. Well, the
single word is there—the word that spells traitor. I'd gone over his record a
dozen times before I stumbled on it" He ceased speaking and watched the
Colonel.

"You
may be right," Gotch said at last. "That's the kind of slip I'd
pounce on myself." He hesitated.

"Go
on," the agent said, as if reading his thoughts.

"There's
one thing I didn't tell you because I didn't want to prejudice your thinking.
The psychiatrists agree with you."

"The psychiatrists?"
The agent's brow furrowed
|a
_x
a
question.

"They've restudied the records
exhaustively, ever since we first knew there was a saboteur in the crew.

"They've
weighed their egos, dissected their personalities, analyzed their capabilities,
literally taken them apart and put them together again. I got their report just
this morning." Gotch looked speculatively at the agent "Your suspect
is also their choice. Only there is no traitor." -

"No
traitor?" The agent started visibly. "I don't get you."

"No
traitor," Gotch echoed. "This is a tougher nut than that. The
personality profile of one man shows a distinct break." He looked
expectantly at the agent

"A plant."
The agent
muttered,
the words thoughtfully.
"A ringer—a spy who has adopted the life role of another.
That indicates careful planning, long preparation." He muttered the words
aloud, talking to himself.

"He would have had to cover every
contingency—friends,

relatives
, acquaintances, skills, hobbies—then, at an
exact time and place, our man was whisked away and he merely stepped in."
He shook his head.

That's the kind of nut
that's really tough to crack."

"Crack it," Gotch
said.

The
agent got to his feet "111 dig him out," he promised savagely.

The drive to rehabilitate Red Dog became
a frenzy
in Crag's mind. He drove his crew mercilessly,
beset by a terrible sense of urgency. Nor did he spare himself. They rigged
lines in the dark of the moon and rotated the rocket on its long axis until the
break in the hull was accessible.

Crag
viewed it with dismay. It was far longer than he had feared—a splintered jagged
hole whose raw torn edges were bent into the belly of the ship. They finally
solved the problem by using the hatch door of Drone Charlie as a seal, lining
it with sheets of foam from Bandit, whose interior temperature immediately
plummeted to a point where it was scarcely livable.

Prochaska
bore the brunt of this new discomfort. Confined as' he was to the cabin and
with little opportunity for physical activity, he nearly froze until he took to
living in his space suit.

Crag
began planning the provisioning of Red Dog even before he knew it could be
repaired. During each trip from Bandit he burdened the men with supplies.
Between times he managed to remove the spare oxygen cylinders carried in Drone
Charlie. There was still a scant supply in Drone Baker, but he decided to leave
those until later.

The
problems confronting him gnawed at his mind until each small difficulty assumed
giant proportions. Each time he managed to fit the work into a proper mental
perspective a new problem or disaster cropped up. He grew nervous and
irritable. In his frantic haste to complete the work on Red

Dog
he found himself begrudging the crew the few hours they took- off each day for
sleep.
Take it easy,
he finally told himself.
Slow down,
Adam. Yet despite his almost hourly resolves
to slow down, he found himself pushing at an ever faster pace. Complete Red Dog
. . . complete Red
Dog .-
. .
became
a refrain in his mind.

Larkwell
grew sullen and surly, snapping at Richter at the slightest provocation. Nagel
became completely indifferent, and in the process, completely ineffectual. Crag
had long realized that the oxygen man had reached his physical limits. Now, he
knew, Nagel had passed them. Maybe he was right . . . maybe he wouldn't leave
the moon.

When
the break in Red Dog was repaired, Crag waited, tense and jittery, while Nagel
entered, the rocket and pressurized it. It'll work, he told himself. It's got
to work. The short period Nagel remained in the rocket seemed to extend into
hours before he opened the hatch.

"One
or two small leaks," he reported wearily. He looked disconsolately at
Crag. "Maybe we can locate them—with a little time."

"Good."
Crag nodded, relieved.
Another
crisis past.
He ordered Larkwell to start pulling the engines.
If things went right . . .

The
work didn't progress nearly as fast as he had hoped. For one thing, the engines
weren't designed for removal. They were welded fast against cross beams spread
between the
hull
. Consequendy, the metal sides of the
ship were punctured numerous times before the job was completed. Each hole
required another weld, another patch, and increased the danger of later
disaster.

Crag
grew steadily moodier. Larkwell seemed to take a vicious satisfaction out of
each successive disaster. He had adopted an I-told-you-so attitude that grated
Crag's nerves raw. Surprisingly enough, Richter proved to be a steadying
influence, at least to Crag. He worked quietiy, efficiendy,
seeming to anticipate problems and find
solutions before even Crag recognized them. Despite the fact that he found
himself depending on the German more and more, he was determined never to relax
his surveillance over the man. Richter was an enemy—a man to be watched.

Larkwell
and Nagel were lackadaisically beginning work on the ship's airlock when Frochaska
came on the interphones with an emergency call.

"Gotch
calling,'' he told Crag
. "
He's hot to get you on
the line."

Crag hesitated. Tell him to go to helL"
he said finally.
Til call him on the regular hour."

"He
said you'd say that," Prochaska informed him amiably, "but he wants
you now."

Another emergency—another hair-raiser.
Gotch is a damn ulcer-maker,
Crag thought savagely. "Okay, I'm on my way," he said wearily.
"Anything to keep him off my back."

"Can I tell him that?"

Tell
him anything you want," Crag snapped. He debated taking the crew with him
but finally decided against it
They
couldn't afford
the time. Reluctantly he put the work party m Larkwell's charge and started
back across the bowl of the crater, each step a deliberate weighted effort.
So much to do.
So little time.
He
trudged through the night cursing the fate that had made him Gotch's pawn.

Gotch was crisp and to the point.
"Another rocket was launched from east of the Caspian this morning,"
he told him.

"Jesus,
we need a company of Marines." "Not this time, Adam." "
Oh .
   
." Crag
muttered the word. That's right
...
a warhead," Gotch confirmed Crag kicked the information around in
his mind for a moment "What do the computers say?"

"Too early to say for sure, but it looks
like it's on the right track."

"Unless
it's a direct hit it's no go. We got ten thousand foot walls
rimming
this hell-hole."

The
Colonel was silent for a moment. "It's not quite that pat," he said
finally.

"Why
not?"

"Because of the low gravity.
Thousands of tons of rock will be lifted.
Some will escape but the majority will fall back like rain. They'll smash down
over a tremendously large area, Adam. At least that's what the scientists tell
us."

"Okay,
in four days well be underground," he said with exaggerated cheerfulness,
"as safe as bunnies in their burrows."

"Can you make it that
fast?"

"Well
have to. That means well have to use Prochaska. That'll keep you off the lines
except for the regular broadcast hour," he said with satisfaction.

Gotch snorted: "Go to
hell."

"Been on the verge of it ever since we left earth."
"One other thing," Gotch said.
"Baby's almost ready to try its wings."

The atomic spaceship 1 Crag suppressed his
excitement with difficulty. He held down his voice. "About time," he
said laconically.

"Don't
give me that blase crap," the Colonel said cheerfully. "I know
exactly how you feel." He informed him that the enemy was proclaiming to
the world they had established a colony on the moon, and had formally requested
the United Nations to recognize their sovereignty over the lunar world.
"How's that for a stack of hogwash?" he ended.

"Pretty good," Crag agreed.
"What are we claiming?"

"The same thing.
Only we happen to be telling the
truth."

"How will the U.N. know that?"

"Well cross that bridge when we get to
it, Adam. Just keep alive and let us worry about the U.N."

"I'm
nut going to commit suicide if that's what you're thinking."

"You
can—if you don't keep on your toes." "
Meaning .
    
?"

"The
saboteur
. .
His voice fell off for a moment.
"I've
been wanting
to talk with you about that,
Adam. We have a lead. I can't name the man yet because it's pretty thin
evidence. Just keep on your toes."

"I am. I'm a grown
boy, remember?"

"More
than usual," Gotch persisted. "The enemy is making an all-out drive
to destroy Pickering Base. You can be sure the saboteur will do his share. The
stage is set, Adam."

"For what?"

"For murder."