Jeff Sutton (3 page)

"You
know and I know that the Aztec is a development from the ICBM's guarding
Fortress America. You also know, or have heard, that out in San Diego the first
atom-powered spaceship is nearing completion.'' He looked sharply at Crag.

"I've heard,"
Crag said noncommittally.

Cotch
eyed him steadily. "That's the point. So have others. Our space program is
no secret. But we've suspected— feared—that the first stab at deep space would
be made before the atom job was completed. Not satellites but deep space
rockets. That's why the Aztec was pushed through so fast." He fell silent.
Crag waited.

"Well,
the worst has happened. The enemy is ready to launch—may have launched this
very night. That's how close it is. Fortunately our gamble with the Aztec is
paying off We're ready, too, Adam.

"We're
going to get that moon. Get it nowl" He reached into a pocket and
extracted his pipe, then thought better of lighting it. Crag waited. The
Colonel was in a rare introspective mood, a quiet moment in which he mentally
tied together and weighed his Nation's prospects in the frightening days
ahead. Finally he spoke:

"We
put a rocket around the moon, Adam." He smiled faintly, noting Crag's
involuntary start of surprise. "Naturally it was fully instrumented.
There's uranium there—one big load located in the most inaccessible spot
imaginable." "ArzacheL" Crag said simply.

"The south side of Arzachel, to be exact.
That's why we didn't pick a soft touch like
Mare Imbrium, in case you've wondered."

"I've wondered."

"Adam," the Colonel hesitated a
long moment, "does the name Pickering mean anything to you?"
"Ken Pickering who—"

"What
have you heard?" snapped Gotch. His eyes became sharp drills.

Crag
spoke slowly: "Nothing
. .
for
a long time. He just seemed to drop oue of sight after he broke the altitude
record in the X-34." He looked up questioning
!/
.

"Frankly,
I've always wondered why he hadn't been selected for this job. I thought he
was a better pilot than I am," he added almost humbly.

Gotch
said blundy: "You're right. He is better." He smiled tolerantly.
"We picked our men for particular jobs," he said finally.
"Pickering . . . we hope . . . will be in orbit before the Aztec blasts
off."

"Satelloid?"

"The
first true satelloid," the Colonel agreed.
"One
that can ride the fringes of space around the earth.
A
satelloid with fantastic altitude and speed.
I'm telling you this
because bell
be
a Hnk in Step One, a communication and
observation link. He won't be up long, of course, but long enough—we
hope."

Silence
fell between them.
Crag looked past die
Colonel's
shoulder. All at once the lights of Alpine Base seemed warm
ind
near, almost personal. Gotch lifted his eyes skyward, [ymboh'c of his dreams.
The light of distant stars reflected off lis brow.

"We don't know whether the Aztec can
make it," he said

humbly
.
"We don't know whether our space-lift system will work, whether the drones
can be monitored down to such a precise point on the moon, or the dangers of
meteorite bombardment. We don't know whether our.
safeguards
for human life are adequate. We don't know whether the opposition can stop us.
.

"We
don't know lots of things, Adam. All we know is that we need the moon. It's a
matter of survival of Western Man, his culture, his way of life, his political
integrity. We need the moon to conquer the
planets' .
.
and
some day the stars."

His voice became a harsh
clang.

"So
does the enemy. That's why we have to establish a proprietory ownership, a
claim that the U.N. will recognize. The little nations represent the balance of
power, Adam. But they sway with the political winds. They are the reeds of
power politics . . . swaying between the Sputniks and Explorers, riding with
the ebb and flow of power always trying to anticipate the ultimate winner.
Right now they're watching to see where that power lies. The nation that wins
the moon will tilt the balance in its favor. At a critical time, I might add.
That's why we have to protect ourselves every inch of the way."

He
tapped his cold pipe moodily against his hand. "We won't be here to see
the end results, of course. That won't be in our time. But we're the starters.
The Aztec is the pioneer ship. And in the future our economy can use that load
of

u
ranium
up
there."

He
smiled faintly at Crag. "When you step through the hatch you've left
earth, perhaps for all time. That's your part in the plan. Step One is your
baby and I have confidence in you." He gripped Crag's arm warmly. It was
the closest he had ever come to showing his feelings toward the man he was
sending into space.

"Come on, let's
go."

Crag started upward. Gotch followed more
slowly, climbing like a man bearing a heavy weight.

The Aztec's crew, Max Frochaska, Cordon Nagel
and Martin Larkwell, came aboard the rocket in the last hour before take-off.
Gotch escorted them up the ladder and introduced them to their new Commander.

Prochaska acknowledged the introduction with
a cheerful smile.

"Glad to know you, Skipper." His
thin warm face said he was glad to be there.

Gordon Nagel gave a perfunctory handshake,
taking in the space cabin with quick ferret-like head movements.

Martin
Larkwell smiled genially, pumping Crag's hand. "I've been looking forward
to this."

Crag
said dryly. "We all have." He acknowledged the introductions with the
distinct feeling that he already knew each member of his crew. It was the odd
feeling of meeting old acquaintances after long years of separation. As part of
his indoctrination he had studied the personnel records of the men he might be
so dependent on. Now, seeing them in the
flesh,
was
merely an act of giving life to those selfsame records. He studied them with
casual eyes while Gotch rambled toward an awkward farewell.

Max
Prochaska, his electronics chief, was -a slender man with sparse brown hair, a
thin acquiline nose and pointed jaw. His pale blue eyes, thin lips and
alabaster skin gave him a delicate look—one belied by his record. His chief
asset— if one was to believe the records-was that he was a genius in
electronics.

Gordon
Nagel, too, was, thin-faced and pallid skinned. His black hair, normally long
and wavy, had been close-cropped. His eyes were small, shifting, agate-black,
giving Crag the feeling that he was uneasy—an impression he was to hold. His
record had described him as nervous in manner but bis psychograph was smooth.
He was an expert in oxygen systems.

Martin
Larkwell, the mechanical maintenance and construction boss, in many ways
appeared the antithesis of his two companions. He was moon-faced, dark, with
short brown hair and a deceptively sleepy look. His round body was
well-muscled, his hands big and square. Crag thought of a sleek drowsy cat,
until he saw his eyes. They were sparkling brown pools, glittering, moving with
some strange inner fire. They were the eyes of a
dreamer .
or
a fanatic, he thought. In the cabin's soft light
they glowed, flickered. No, there was nothing sleepy about him, he decided.

All
of the men were short, light, in their early thirties. In contrast Crag, at
5" 10" and 165 pounds, seemed a veritably giant. A small physique,
he knew, was almost an essential in space, where every ounce was bought at tremendous
added weight in fuel. His own weight had been a serious strike against him.

Colonel
Gotch made one final trip to the space cabin. This time he brought the
Moon Code Manual
(stamped TOP SECRET), the crew personnel
records (Crag wondered why) and a newly printed pamphlet titled "Moon
Survival." Crag grinned when he saw it.

"Does it tell us how
to get there, too?"

"Well
write that chapter later," Gotch grunted. He shook each man's hand and
gruffly wished them luck before turning abruptly toward the hatch. He started
down the ladder. A moment later his head reappeared.

He
looked sharply at Crag and said, "By the way, that twosome at the Blue
Door got it last night."

"You mean . .
  
?"

"Burp gun.
No finesse.
Just sheer
desperation.
Well, I just wanted to let you know we weren't altogether
crazy." "I didn't think you were."

The Colonel's hps wrinkled in a curious
smile. "No?" He
looked at Crag for a long moment. "Good luck." His head
disappeared from view and Crag heard his footsteps descending the ladder.

Then
they were
alone7four
men alone. Crag turned
toward his companions.

CHAPTER
3

The great
red sun was just breaking over the desert
horizon when Crag got bis last good look at earth. Its rays slanted upward,
shadows fled from the sage; the obsidian sky with its strewn diamonds became
slate gray and, in moments, a pale washed blue. Daybreak over the desert became
a thunder of light. Tiny ants had removed the last of the metal framework
encompassing the rocket. Other ants were visible making last minute cheeks.

He
returned his attention to the space cabin. Despite long months of training in
the cabin simulator—an exact replica of the Aztec quarters—be was appalled at
the lack of outside vision. One narrow rectangular quartz window above the
control panel, a circular port on each side bulkhead and one on the floor—he
had to look between his knees to see through it when seated at the
controls—provided the sole visual access to the outside world. A single large
radarscope, a radar altimeter and other electronic equipment provided analogs
of the outside world; the reconstruction of the exterior environment painted
on the scopes by electromagnetic impulses.

The cabin was little more than a long
flat-floored cylinder
with most of the instrumentation in the nose section. With the rocket in launch
position, what normally was the rear wall formed the floor. The seats had been
swiveled out to operational position.

Now
they were seated, strapped down, waiting. It
was,
Crag
thought, like sitting in a large automobile which had been balanced on its rear
bumper. During launch and climb their backs would be horizontal to the earth's
surface.

He
was thankful they were not required to wear their heavy pressure suits until
well into the moon's gravisphere. Normally pressure suits and helmets were the
order of the day. He was used to stratospheric flight where heavy pressure
suits and helmets were standard equipment; gear to protect the fragile human
form until the lower oxygen-rich regions of the air ocean could be reached in
event of trouble. But the Aztec was an all-or-nothing affair. There were no
escape provisions, no ejection seats, for ejection would be impossible at the
rocket's speeds during its critical climb through the atmosphere. Either
everything went according to the book
or .
.
or
else, he concluded grimly. But it had one good aspect.
Aside from the heavy safety harnessing, he would be free of the intolerably
clumsy suit until moon-fall. If anything went wrong, well . . .

He
bit the thought off, feeling the tension building inside him. He had never
considered himself the hero type. He had prided himself that his ability to
handle hot planes was a reflection of his competence rather than courage.
Courage, to him, meant capable performance in the face of fear. He had never
known fear in any type of aircraft, hence never before had courage been a
requisite of his job. It was that simple to him. His thorough knowledge of the
Aztec's theoretical flight characteristics had given him extreme confidence,
thus the feeling of tension was distracting. He held his hand out'. It seemed
steady enough.

Prochaska caught the gesture and said,
"I'm a little shaky myself."