Jeff Sutton (28 page)

"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.

Richter answered
confidendy: "Well make it."

Strange,
Crag thought, I wind up fighting with the enemy to keep one of my own crew from
murdering me.
Enemy?
No, he could no longer brand
Richter an enemy. He felt a pang of regret over the way he'd mistrusted him.
Still, there had been no other course. A thought jolted him. He spoke casually,
aware he might be stepping on Richter's toes: 'There's one thing I don't
understand . . ."

"What?"

"LarkweD's
an enemy agent
..."
He
hesitated. "And .
. .
r

"Why
didn't he attempt to solicit your aid?" Crag finished bluntiy.

"You're
a spaceman, Commander, not an intelligence agent."

"I don't get the
connection."

"An
agent trusts no one. And a saboteur is the lone wolf of the agents. Trust me?
Hal He'd just as soon trust your good Colonel Gotch. No, Larkwell wouldn't have
trusted me.
Never."

Crag
was silent. An agent who couldn't trust a soldier of his own country, even when
the chips were down? It was a philosophy he couldn't understand. As for
Larkwell! He vowed he'd live long enough to see him dead. More, he'd kill him
himself. He was planning how he'd accomplish it when they reached the rill
where Red Dog was buried. He switched his torch on and ran it along the edge of
the chasm until he located the rope ladder leading down to the airlock.

"You
lower 'em and 111 pack 'em." Crag ordered. He descended into the rill and
began moving the.
cylinders
Richter lowered to him.
Finished, he examined the cylinders they had brought earlier. Empty! His hps
set in a thin line as he examined the cylinders which the rocket had brought
from earth. Empty
...
all
empty. Larkwell had done a thorough job.

He
gritted his teeth. Before he was through he'd ram the empty cylinders down
Larkwell's throat. Yeah, and that wasn't all. He contemplated the step-by-step
procedure. Larkwell would die. Die horribly. He looked toward the hatch
wondering what was detaining Richter. He waited a moment,
then
climbed back to the plain. The German was nowhere in sight.

"Richter?" There was no answer. He
checked his interphone to make sure it was working and called again.
Silence.
He swept his torch over the plain. No Richter. The
German had
vanished .
.
disappeared
into the black maw of the crater.

"Richter! Richter, answer
me .
.
   
V
Silence.
Apprehension swept him. He called again, desperately: "Richter!"

"I'm all right, Commander."
RichterY voice was low,
seeming to have come from a distance. "You'd better get back into Red
Dog."

"Where are
you?"
Crag demanded.

"I have a job to do."

"Come
back." The German didn't answer. Crag was about to start in pursuit when
he realized he didn't have the faintest idea what direction Richter had taken.
He hesitated, baffled and fearful by turn.

Periodically
he called his name without receiving an answer. He fumed, wondering what the
German had in mind. He couldn't get into Bandit and, besides, he was unarmed.
He popped back into Red Dog and looked at the chrono. If Gotch's figures were
right the warhead would strike in four rninutes. He climbed out of the rill.

"Warhead
due in less than four minutes," he called into his mike.

"Get back into Red Dog, Commander,"
Richter insisted. Crag snapped irritably: "What the hell are you trying to
do."

"Commander, many people have crossed the
frontier— from East to West. Many others have wanted to." "I don't
get you."

"I
had to come all the way to Arzachel to find my frontier, Commander."

"Richter, come back," Crag ordered,
his voice level.

"There's
nothing you can do. You didn't know it but when I landed here I crossed the
frontier, Commander. I went from East to West, on the moon."

"Richter . . . ?" "Now I am
free."

"I
don't know what you're talking about, but you'd better get back here—and
pronto. You'll get massacred if you're on the
plain
when the rocket hits." Inwardly he was shaken. "There's
not
a damn thing you can do about Larkwell."

"Ah, but there is. He
forgot two things, Commander. The oxygen in Baker was only the first."
"And the second?"
Richter did not answer.

Crag
^called again. No answer. He waited, uncertain what to do next.

The
ground twisted violendy under his feet. The warhead! A series of diminishing
quakes rolled the plain in sharp jolts. Missed ArzacheL he thought jubilandy.
It
missed .
.
missed
. He twisted
his head upward. The sky was black, black,
a
great
black spread that reached to infinity, broken only by the brilliance of the
stars. Off to one side Bettelgeuse was a baleful red eye in the shoulder of
Orion.

A picture of what was happening flashed through
his mind. Somewhere between Alphons and Arzachel thousands of tons of rock were
hurtling upward in great ballistic trajectories, parabolic courses which would
bring them crashing back onto the lunar surface. Many would escape, would
hurtle through space until infinity ended. Some would be caught in the
gravisphere of planets, would crash down into strange worlds. But most would
smash back on the moon. Rocks ranging in size from grains of dust to giants
capable of smashing skyscrapers would fall like rain.

"Richter!
Richter!" He repeated the call several times. No answer. He swept his
torch futilely over the plain. Richter was a dedicated man. If the coming rain
of death held any fears for him he failed to show it. He looked up again,
fancying that he saw movement against the stars. Somewhere up there mountains
were hurtling through the void. He hurriedly descended into the rill,
hesitated, then moved into the rocket. He again hesitated before leaving the
airlock open. Richter might return.

After
a while he felt the first thud,-a jolt that shook the rocket and traveled
through his body like a wave. The floor danced under his feet He held his
breath expectandy, suppressing an instant of panic. The rocket vibrated several
times but none of the jolts was as severe as the first. He waited, aware of the
stillness, a silence so deep it was like a great thunder. The big stuff must
all be down. The thought bolstered his courage. The idea of being squashed like
a bug was not appealing. He waited, wondering if Richter had survived. He
thought of Larkwell and involuntarily clenched his fists. Larkwell, or Igor
Malin—if he lived— would be his first order of business. He remembered Nagel
and Frochaska and began planning how he would kill the man in Bandit He waited a
while longer. The absolute silence grated his ears. Now, he thought.

He
slipped on a fresh oxygen cylinder, and hooked a spare into his belt, then
pawed through the supplies until he found fresh batteries for his torch.
Finally he got one of the automatic rifles from Red Dog's arsenal. After that
he climbed up to the plain. He called Richter's name several times over the
phones, with little hope of answer. He looked at the sky,
then
swept his torch over the moonscape. A feeling of solitude assailed him. For the
first time since leaving earth he was totally alone.

The
last time he had experienced such a feeling was when he'd pushed an
experimental rocket ship almost to the «dge of space. He shook off the feeling
and debated what to do. Richter undoubtedly was dead. Had Larkwell —or was it
Malin?—survived the rock storm? Spurred to action, he turned toward Bandit.
Nothing seemed changed, he thought, or almost nothing. Here and there the
smooth ash was pitted. Once he came to a jagged rock which lay almost astride
his path. He was sure it hadn't been there before.

He
moved more cautiously as he drew near Bandit, remembering that the occupant of
the rocket was armed. He climbed a familiar knoll, searching the plain ahead
with his torch. He stopped, puzzled, flashing to light to check

his
bearings. Satisfied he was
on the right knoll he played

the
light ahead again while moving down to the plain. He walked slowly forward.
Once he dropped to the ground to see if he could discern the bulk of Bandit
against the stars. Finally he walked faster, sweeping the torch over the plain
in wide arcs. Suddenly he stopped. Gone! Bandit was gonel
It
couldn't be. It might be demolished, smashed flat, but it couldn't disappear.
He wondered if he were having hallucinations. No, he was sane . . . completely
sane. He began calling Richter's name. The silence mocked him. Finally he
turned back toward Red Dog.

Crag
slept He slept with the airlock closed and the cabin flooded with oxygen. He
slept the sleep of the dead, a luxurious sleep without thought or dream. When
he awakened, he ate and donned the pressure suit thinking he would have to get
more oxygen from the drone. He opened the hatch and scrambled out
The
plain was light. The sun was an intolerable circle
hanging at the very edge of the horizon. He blinked his eyes to get them used
to the glare.

He
studied the plain for a long time, then hefted the rifle and started toward
Bandit before he remembered there was no Bandit No Bandit? When he reached the
top of the knoll, he knew he was right Bandit unaccountably was gone. He
searched the area in wide circles." The question grew in his mind. He
found several twisted pieces of metal —a jagged piece of engine. Abruptly he
found Richter.

He
was dead. His suit hung limp, airless against his body. He stared at the object
next to Richter. It was a moment before he recognized it as the rocket
launcher.

"He
forgot two things, Commander . .
.*
*

Now
he understood Richter's words. Now he knew the motive that had driven him onto
the plain in the face of the rock storm. Richter had used the launcher to
destroy

Bandit,
to destroy the murderer of Prochaska and NageL He marveled that Richter could
have carried the heavy weapon. Once, before, he had watched two men struggle
under its weight Richter must have mustered every ounce of his strength.