Jeff Sutton (21 page)

Long,
minutes passed. Once or twice he thought he saw movement among the rocks and
started to lift his rifle; but there was no movement. Illusions, he told
himself. His eyes were playing him tricks. The bizarre sea of rocks confronting
him was a study in black and white—the intolerable light of sun-struck surfaces
contrasting with the
Stygian
blackness of the shadows.
His eyes began to ache and he shifted them from time to time to shut out the glare.
He was sweating again and there was a dull ache at the back of his head.
Precious time was fleeing. He'd have to resolve the chase—soon.

All
at once he saw movement that was not an illusion. He half rose, raising his
rifle when dust spurted from the
ground
a
few feet to his left. He cursed and threw himself to the ground, rolling until
he was well below the ridge. One
thing
was
certain: the sniper had the ridge well under control. The Red Dog watcher
must
have warned him, he thought. He looked around. Off to one side a small
rill cut through the rocks running in the sniper's general direction. He looked
back toward the ridge, hesitated, then decided to gamble on the rill. He moved
crablike along the side of the slope until he reached its edge and peered over.
The bottom was a pool of darkness. He lowered himself over the edge with some
misgivings, searching for holds with his hands and feet. His boot unexpectedly
touched bottom.

Crag
stood for a moment on the floor of the rill. His body was clothed in black
velvet shadows but it was shallow enough to leave his head in the sunlight. He
moved cautiously forward, half expecting the sniper to appear in front of him.
His nerves were taut, edgy.

Relax, boy, you're strung like a violin,
he told himself.
Take it easy.

A
bend in the rill cut off the sun leaving him in a well of blackness. He hadn't
counted on that. Before he'd moved another dozen steps he realized the rill
wasn't the answer. He'd have to chance getting back into the open. More time
was lost. He felt the steep sides until he located a series of breaks in the
walk then slung his rifle over his shoulder and inched upward until his head
cleared the edge. The sun's sudden glare blinded him. Involuntarily he jerked his
head sideways, almost losing his hold in the process. He clung to the wall for
a moment before laboriously pulling his body over the edge.

He
lay prone against the rocks, half-expecting to be greeted by a hail of bullets.
He waited quietly, without moving,
then
carefully
raised his head. Off to one side was a series of mounds. He crawled toward them
without moving bis belly from the ground. When he reached the first one, he
half rose and scuttled forward until he found a view of the twisted rocks where
he had last seen the sniper.

The
scene ahead was a still-life painting. It seemed incongruous that somewhere
among the quiet rocks death moved in the form of a man. He decided against
penetrating further into the tangle of rocks. He'd wait. He settled back, conscious
that time was fleeing.

"Skipper,
are you cheeking your oxygen?" The Chief's voice rattled against his
eardrums. It was filled with alarm.

"Listen,
I have no time—" Crag started to growl. His words were clipped short as
his eyes involuntarily took the reading of his oxygen gauge.
Low
.
low
. He calculated quickly. He was well past
the point of no return—too low to make the long trip back to Bandit. He was
done, gone, a plucked gosling. He had bought himself a coffin and he'd rest
there for all eternity—boxed in by the weird tombstones of Crater ArzacheL Adam
Crag—the Man in the Moon.

He grinned wryly. Well, at least his quarry
was going with him. He wouldn't greet his Maker empty handed. He tersely
informed Prochaska of his predicament, then recklessly moved to a high vantage
point and scanned the rocks beyond.

He had to make every second count. Light and
shadow

. .
light
and shadow. Somewhere in the crisscross of light and
shadow was a man-form, a blob of protoplasm like
himself
,
a living thing that had to be stamped out before the last of his precious
oxygen was gone. He was the executioner. Somewhere ahead a doomed man waited in
the docks waited for
nim
,
to come. They were two men from opposite sides of the world, battling to
death in Hell's own backyard. Only he'd
win .
    
win
before he
died.

He
was scanning the rocky tableau when the sniper moved into his field of vision,
far to one side of Crag's position. He was running with short choppy steps,
threading between the rocks toward Red Dog. His haste and apparent disregard
of exposing himself puzzled Crag for a moment,
then
he
smiled grimly. Almost out of oxygen, he thought. WelL that makes two of us. But
he still had to make sure his quarry died. The thought spurred him to action.

He
turned and scrambled back toward the tip of Backbone Ridge to cut the sniper's
escape route. He reached the end rocks and waited. A few moments later he
sighted a figure scrambling toward him. He raised his rifle thinking it was too
far for a shot,
then
lowered it again. The sniper
began moving more slowly and cautiously, then became lost to sight in a maze of
rock outeroppings.

Crag
waited impatiendy, aware that precious moments were fleeing. He was afraid to
look at his gauge, plagued by the sense of vanishing moments. Time was running
out and eternity was drawing near—near to Adam Crag as well as the sniper. The
rocks extended before
him,
a kaleidoscopic pattern of
black and white. Somewhere in the tortuous labyrinth was the man he had to kill
before
he
himself died. He watched nervously, trying
to suppress the tension pulling at his muscles. A nerve in his cheek twitched
and he shook his head without removing his eyes from the rocks ahead. Still
there was no sign of the other.

Who
was the stalker and who was the stalked? The question bothered him. Perhaps
even at that instant the sniper was drawing bead. Then he'd be free to reach
Red Dog —safety.

Crag
decided he couldn't wait. He'd have to seek the other out, somehow flush him
from cover. He looked around. Off to one side a shelf of black rock angled
incongruously into the sky. Its sides were steep but its top would command all
approaches to the tip of the crescent. He made his way to the base of the shelf
and began scrambling up its steep sides, finding it difficult to manage toe and
hand holds. He slipped from time to time, hanging desperately on to keep
himself from rolling back to the rocks below. Just below the top he rested,
panting, fighting for breath, conscious of his heart thudding in his ears. He
had to hurry I

Slowly,
laboriously he pulled himself up the last few feet and lay panting atop the
shelf, none too soon. The sniper scrambled out of the rocks a scant hundred
yards from Crag's position. He raised his rifle,
then
hesitated. The Red Dog crewman had fallen to his hands and knees and was
fighting to rise. He pushed his hands against the plain in an attempt to get
his feet under him. Crag lowered his rifle and watched curiously.

The sniper finally succeeded in getting to
his feet. He stood for a moment, weaving, before moving toward Crag's shelf
with a faltering zigzag gait. Crag raised the rifle and tried to line the
sights. He had difficulty holding the weapon steady. He started to pull the
trigger when the man fell again. Crag hesitated. The sniper floundered in the
ash, managed to pull
himself
half-erect. He weaved
with a few faltering steps and plunged forward on his face.

Crag
watched for a moment. There was no movement. The black blob of the suit lay
with the stillness of the rocks in the brazen heat of the crater. So that's the
way a man dies when his oxygen runs out, he thought. He just plops down, jerks
a little and departs, with as little ceremony as that He grinned crookedly,
thinking he had just watched a rehearsal of his own demise. He watched for a
moment longer before turning his face back toward the plain.

Red
Dog was a bare half-mile away—a clear level half-mile from the tip of Backbone
Ridge. That's how close the sniper had come to living. He mulled the thought
with a momentary surge of hope.
Red Dog?
Why not? If
he could shoot his way into the space cabin he'd
live .
live
. The thought galvanized him to action.

He
slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the slope heedless of the
danger of ripping his suit. He could make it. He had to make itl He gained the
bottom and paused to catch his breath before starting toward the rocket. A
glance at his oxygen meter told him that the race was futile. Still, he forced
his legs into a run, threading through the rocks toward the floor of the
crater. He reached the tip of the crescent panting heavily and plunged across
the level floor of the plain. His legs were leaden, his lungs burned and sweat
filled his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. Still he ran.

The
rocket rose from the crater floor, growing larger, larger. He tried to keep in
a straight path, aware that he was moving in a crazy zigzag course.

The
rocket loomed bigger . . . bigger. It appeared immense. Caution, he told
himself, there's
an
hombre up there with a rifle. He
halted, feeling his body weave, and tried to steady himself. High up in the
nose of Red Dog the hatch was a dancing black shadow—black with movement. He
pulled the rifle from his shoulder and moved the control to full, automatic,
falling to his knees as he did so. Strange, the ashy floor of the crater was
erupting in small fountains just to his side. Danger, he thought, take cover.
.The warning bells were still ringing in his brain as he slid forward on his
stomach and tried to steady his weapon. Dust spurted across his face plate
..
The black rectangle of the hatch danced crazily in his
sights. He pulled back on the trigger, feeling the heavy weapon buck against
his shoulder, firing until the clip was empty. His fingers hurriedly searched
his belt for the spare clips.
Gone.
Somehow he'd lost
them. He'd have to rush the rocket.

He
got to his feet, weaving dizzily, and forced his legs to move. Once or twice he
fell, regaining his feet with difficulty.

He
heard a voice. It took him a minute to realize it was his own. He was babbling
to Prochaska, trying to tell
him .

The
sky was black. No, it was white, dazzling white, white with heat,
red
with flame. He saw Red Dog with difficulty. The rocket
was a hotel, complete with room clerk. Pie laughed inanely.
A
Single, please.
No, 111 only
be
staying for the
night. He fell again. This time it took him longer to regain his feet. He
stumbled
walked .
stumbled
.
His eyes sought the rocket. It was weaving, swaying back and forth. Foolish, he
thought, there was no wind in Crater Arzachel. No air, no wind, no nothing.
Nothing but death.
Wait, there was someone sitting on top of
the rocket—a giant of a man with a long white beard. He watched Crag and
smiled. He reached out a hand and beckoned. Crag ran. The sky exploded within
his brain, his legs buckled and he felt bis face plate smash against the ashy
floor. For all eternity, he thought. The blackness came.

Adam Crag opened his eyes. He was lying on his back.

Above
him the dome of the sky formed a great black canopy sprinkled with brilliant
stars. His thoughts, chaotic memories, gradually stabilized and he remembered
his mad flight toward Red Dog.

This
couldn't be death, he thought. Spirits didn't wear space suits. He sensed
movement and twisted his head to one side. Gordon Nagell The oxygen man's face
behind the heavy plate was thin, gaunt, but .he was smiling. Crag thought that
he had never seen such a wonderful smile. Nagel's Bps crinkled into speech:

"I
was beginning to wonder when you'd make it." Even his voice was
different,
Crag thought The nasal twang was gone. It was
soft mellow, deep with concern. He thought it was the most wonderful sound he
had ever heard.

Thanks, Gordon," he said simply. He
spoke the words thinking it was the first time he'd ever addressed the other by
his first name.

"How'd you ever locate
me?"

"Started
early," Nagel said. "I was pretty sure you'd push yourself past the
point of no return. You seemed pretty set on getting that critter."