Jeff Sutton (15 page)
Authors: First on the Moon
At
evening by earth clock they ate their scant fare. They were unusually silent.
The Chief seemed weary from his long vigil on the scope. Larkwell's face was
sweaty, smudged with grease. He ate quickly, with the air of a man preoccupied
with weighty problems. Nagel was clearly bushed. Larkwell's fast pace had been
too much for him. He wore a cross, irritable expression and avoided all
conversation. Richter sat alone, seemingly unconcerned that he was
a
virtual prisoner, confined to one small corner of the cabin barely large
enough to provide sleeping space. Crag had no feelings where he was concerned,
neither resentment nor sympathy. The German was
fust
a
happenstance, a castaway in the war for Arzachel. Or, more probable, he
thought, the war for the moon.
After
chow the men took turns shaving with the single razor. It had been supplied
only because of the need to keep the oxygen ports in the helmets free and to
keep the hp mikes clear.
"Pure
luxury," Prochaska said when his turn
came.
"Nothing's too good for the spaceman."
"Amen,"
Crag agreed. "I hope the next crew
is
going
to get a bar of soap."
"For
their sake I hope they pick something better than this crummy planet,"
Larkwell grunted.
Drone Baker had entered the moon's
gravisphere at the precise time spelled out by the earth computers. Its speed
had dropped to a mere two hundred miles per hour. It began to accelerate,
pulled by the moon, moving in
a
vast
trajectory calculated to put it into a closing orbit around the barren
satellite. Prochaska picked it up and followed it on the scope. Telemeter
control from Alpine fired the first braking rockets. The blast countered the
moon's pull. Drone Baker was still a speck on the scope—a solitary traveler
rushing toward them through the void.
"Seems
incredible it took us that long," Crag mused, studying the instrument
panel. He reached over and activated the analog. Back on earth saucers with
faces lifted to the skies were tracking the drone's flight. Their information
was channeled into computer batteries, integrated, analyzed, and sent back into
space. The wave train ended in a gridded scope—the analog Crag was viewing.
"Seemed
a damned lot shorter when we were up there," he speculated aloud.
"That's
one experience that really telescopes time," the Chief agreed. "I'd
hate to have to sweat it out again."
"When do we take
over?"
Prochaska
glanced at the master chrono. "Not till 0810, give or take a few minutes.
It depends on the final computations from Alpine."
"Better
catch some sleep," Crag suggested. "It's going to be touchy once we
get hold of it."
"Well be damn lucky if
we get it down in Arzachel."
"We'd
better." Crag grinned. "Muff this and we might as well take out lunar
citizenship."
"No thanks. Not
interested."
"What's the matter,
Max* no pioneer spirit?"
"Go to hell,"
Prochaska answered amiably.
"Now,
Mr. Prochaska, that's no way to speak to your commanding officer," Crag
reproved with mock severity.
"Okay. Go to hell,
Sir," he joked.
Richter
was a problem. Someone had to be awake at all times. Crag decided to break the
crew into watches, and laid out a tentative schedule. He would take the first
watch,
Larkwell
would relieve him at midnight, and Nagel would take over at 0300. That way
Prochaska would get
a full-nights
sleep. He would need
steady nerves come morning. He outlined the schedule to the crew. Neither
Larkwell nor Nagel appeared enthusiastic over the prospect of initiating a
watch regime, but neither protested openly.
When
the others were asleep, Crag cut off the light to preserve battery power. He
studied the lunar landscape out the port, thinking it must be the bleakest spot
in the universe. He twisted his head and looked starward. The sky was a grab
bag of suns. Off to one side giant Orion looked across the gulf of space at
Taurus and the Pleiades, the seven daughters of Atlas.
CHAPTER 11
"CommandebI
" Crag came to with a start Prochaska
was leaning over him. Urgency was written across his face.
"Come
quick!" The Chief stepped back 'And motioned with his head toward the
instrument corner. Crag sprang to his feet with a sense of alarm. Richter and
Larkwell were still asleep. He glanced at the master chrono, 0610, and followed
him into the electronics corner. Nagel was standing by the scope, a frightened
look on his face.
"What's up?"
"Nagel
woke me at sis. I came in to get ready for Drone Baker . . ."
"Get to the point," Crag snapped
irritably.
"Sabotage."
He indicated under the panel "All the
wiring under the main console's been slashed."
Crag
felt a sense of dread. "How long will it take to make repairs?"
"I don't know—don't
know the full extent of the damage."
"Find out," Crag
barked.
"How about the communicator?"
"Haven't
tried it," Frochaska admitted. "I woke you up as soon as I found what
had happened." He reached over and turned a knob. After a few seconds a
hum came from the console. "Works," he said.
"See
how quickly you can make repairs," Crag ordered. "We've got to hook
onto the drone pretty quick."
He
swung impau'entiy toward Nagel. "Was anyone up during your watch? Did
anyone go to the commode?"
Nagel
said defensively: "No, and I was awake all the time." Too defensive,
Crag thought. But no one had stirred dining his watch. Therefore, the sabotage
had occurred between midnight and the time Nagel wakened Prochaska. But,
wait .
. Prochaska could have done the sabotage in the few
moments he was at the console after Nagel woke him. It would have taken just
one quick slash—the work of seconds. That left him in the same spot he'd been
in with regard to the time bomb.
He
grated harshly at Nagel: "Wake Larkwell and get on with the airlock. And
don't chatter about what's happened," he added.
"I won't," Nagel promised
nervously. He retreated as if glad to be rid of Crag's scrutiny. "A lousy
mess," Prochaska grunted. Crag didn't answer.
"If
we don't solve this, we're going to wind up dead," he pursued.
Crag
turned and faced him. "It could be anybody.
You . . .
me."
"Yeah, I know." The Chiefs face got
a hard tight look. "Only it isn't
. .
* it isn't
me."
"I don't know
that," Crag countered.
Frochaska said bitterly:
"You'd better find out"
"I
will," Crag said shortly. He got on the communicator. It took several
minutes to
raise
Alpine. He wasn't surprised when
Gotch answered, and briefly related what had happened.
"Is there any possibility of
telemetering her all the way in?" He knew there wasn't, but he asked
anyway.
"Impossible.''
"Okay, well try and
make it from here."
The
Colonel added a few comments. They were colorful but definitely not
complimentary. He got the distinct impression the Colonel wasn't pleased with
events on the moon. When his cold voice faded from the communicator, Crag tried
the analog. The grid scope came to fife but it was blank. Of course, he
thought, Drone Baker was cut off from earth by the body of the moon. It could
not be simulated on the analog until it came from behind the blind side where
the earth saucers could track its flight
"Morning,"
Larkwell said, sticking his head around the curtain. "How about climbing
into your suits so we can get out of this can?" Crag studied his face. It
seemed void of any guile. Nagel stood nervously behind him.
"Okay,"
Crag said shortly. He hated to" have Frochaska lose the precious moments.
They hurriedly donned their suits and Nagel decompressed the cabin, Larkwell
opened the hatch and they left Crag closed it after them and released fresh
oxygen into the cabin. Richter took off his suit and returned to his corner.
His eyes were bright with interest He knows, Crag thought
At
0630 the communicator came to life. A voice at the other end gave Drone Baker's
position and velocity as if nothing had happened. The drone, on the far side of
the moon, was decelerating, dropping as servo mechanisms operating on timers
activated its blasters. It was guided solely by the radio controlled servos,
following a flight path previously determined by banks of computers. Everything
was in apple-pie order, except for the snafu in ArzacheL Crag thought bitterly.
Prochaska
worked silently, swiftly. Crag watched with a helpless feeling. There wasn't
room for both of them to work at one time. The Chiefs head and arms literally
filled the opening of the sabotaged console. Once he snapped for more light and
Crag beamed a torch over his shoulder, fretting from the inaction.
Sounds
came through the rear bulkhead where Larkwell and Nagel were working in the
tail section. Strange, Crag thought, to all appearances each crew member was a
dedicated man. But one was a traitor. Which one? That's what he had to find
out. Richter would have been the logical suspect were it not for the episode
of die time bomb. No, it hadn't been the German. It was
either
the
competent Prochaska, the sullen Nagel or the somehow cheerful but inscrutable
Larkwell. But there should be a clue. If only he knew what to look for. Well,
he'd find it. When he did He clenched his fists savagely.
At
0715 Alpine simulated the drone on the analog. Fifteen minutes later Prochaska
pulled his head from the console and asked Crag to try the scope. It worked.
"Now
if I can get those damn wires that control the steering and braking rockets
. ."
He dived back into the console. Crag looked at the
chrono,
then
swung his eyes to the instruments. Drone
Baker was coming in fast. The minutes ticked off. The communicator came to life
with more data. Baker was approaching Ptolemaeus on its final leg. The voice
cut off and Gotch came on.
"We're ready to transfer control."
Prochaska shook his head
negatively without looking up.
"What's the maximum
deadline?" Crag asked.
"0812,
exactly three minutes, ten seconds," Cotch rasped. Prochaska moved his
head to indicate maybe. The communicator was silent. Crag watched the master
chrono.
At
0812 Prochaska was still buried in the panel. Crag's dismay grew—dismay and a
sense of guilt over the sabotage. Cotch had warned him against the possibility
innumerable times. Now it had happened. The loss of Drone Able had been a bad
blow; the loss of Baker could be fatal, not only to the success of their
mission but to their survival.
Survival
meant an airlock and the ability to live on their scant supplies until Arzachel
was equipped to handle incoming rockets on a better-than-chance basis. Well,
one thing at a time, he thought. He suppressed the worry nagging at his mind.
Just now it was Drone Baker's turn at bat.
At 0813 Prochaska sprang to his feet and
nodded. Crag barked an okay into the communicator while the Chief got his
bearings on the instruments. Crag hoped the lost minute wouldn't be fatal. By
0814 Prochaska had the drone under control. It was 90,000 feet over Alphons
traveling at slightly better than a thousand miles per hour. He hit the braking
rockets hard.
"We're
not going to make it," he gritted. He
squinted
his eyes. His face was set, grim.
"Hold it with full
braking power."
"Not sufficient fuel
allowance."
"Then crash it as
close as possible."
Prochaska nodded and moved a control full
over. The drone's braking rockets were blasting continuously. Crag studied the
instruments. It was going to be close. By the instrument data they couldn't
make it. Drone Baker seemed doomed. It was too high, moving too fast despite
the lavish waste of braking power. His hand clenched the back of Prochaska's
seat He couldn't tear his eyes from the scope. Baker thundered down.