Jeff Sutton Read online

  It came slowly, widely spaced, as if Gotch realized Crag's limitations in handling the intricate cipher system evolved especially for this one operation. Learning it had caused him many a sleepless night He copied the message letter by letter, his understanding blanked by the effort to decipher it. He finished, then quickly read the two scant lines:

  "Blank channel to Alp unless survival need."

  He studied the message for a long moment. Cotch was telling him not to contact Alpine Base unless it were a life or death matter. -Not that everything connected with the operation wasn't a life or death matter, he thought grimly. He decided the message was connected with the presence of the rocket now riding astern and to one side of the Aztec and her drone. He guessed the Moon Code had been used to prevent possible pickup by the intruder rather than any secrecy involving his own crew.

  He quiedy passed the information to Prochaska. The Chief listened, nodding, his eyes going to the analog.

  According to his computations, the enemy rocket—Prochaska had dubbed it Bandit—would pass abeam of Drone Able slighdy after they entered the moon's gravitational field, about 24,000 miles above the planet's surface. Then what? He pursed his hps vexedly. Bandit was a factor that had to be considered, but just how he didn't know. One thing was certain. The East knew about the load of uranium in Crater Arzachel. That, then, was the destination of the other rocket. Among the many X unknowns he had to solve, a new X had been added; the rocket from behind the Iron Curtain. Some-thing,to4d him this would be the biggest X of all.

  CHAPTER 7

  IF COLONEL Michael Cotch were worried, he didn't show it He puffed complacently on his black briar pipe watching and listening to the leathery-faced man across from him. His visitor was angular, about sixty, with gray-black hair and hard-squinted eyes. A livid scar bit deep into his forehead; his mouth was a cold thin slash in his face. He wore the uniform of a Major General in the United States Air Force. The uniform did not denote the fact that its wearer was M.I.—Military, Intelligence. His name was Leonard Telford.

  "So that's Jhe way it looks," General Telford was saying. "The enemy is out to get Arzachel at all costs. Failing that, they'll act to keep us from it."

  "They wouldn't risk war," Gotch stated calmly.

  "No, but neither would we. That's the damnable part of it," the General agreed. "The next war spells total annihilation. But for that very reason they can engage in sabotage and hostile acts with security of knowledge that we won't go to war. Look at them now—the missile attack on the Aztec, the time bomb plant, the way they operate their networks right in our midst. Pure audacity. HelL they've even got an agent en route to the moon. On our rocket at that."

  The Colonel nodded uncomfortably. The presence of a saboteur on the Aztec represented a bungle in his department. The General was telling him so in a not too gende way.

  "I seem to recall I was in Astrakhan myself a few years back," he reminded.

  "Oh, sure, we build pretty fair networks ourselves," the General said blandly. He looked at Gotch .and a rare smile crossed his face. "How did you like the dancing girls in Gorik's, over by the shore?"

  Gotch looked startled, then grinned. "Didn't know you'd ever been that far in, General."

  "Uh-huh, same time you were."

  "Well, 111 be damned," Gotch breathed softly. There was a note of respect in his voice. The General was silent for a moment.

  "But the Caspian's hot now."

  "Meaning?"

  "Warheads—with the name Arzachel writ large across the nose cones." He eyed Gotch obliquely. "If we secure Arzachel first, theyTl blow it off the face of the moon." They looked at each other silently. Outside a jet engine roared to life.

  The moon filled the sky. It was gigantic, breath-taking, a monstrous sphere of cratered rock moving in the eternal silence of space with ghostly-radiance, heedless that a minute mote bearing alien life had entered its gravitational field. It moved in majesty along its orbit some 2,300 miles every hour, alternately approaching to within 222,000 miles of its Earth Mother, retreating to over 252,000 miles measuring its strides by some strange cosmic clock.

  The Apennines, a rugged mountain range jutting 20,000 feet above the planet's surface, was clearly visible. It rose near the Crater Eratosthenes, running northwest some 200 miles to form the southwest boundary of Mare Imbriurn. The towering Leibnitz and Dorfel Mountains were visible near the edge of the disc. South along the tenninator, the border between night and day, lay Ptolemaeus, Alphons, and Arzachel.

  Crag and Prochaska studied its surface, picking out the flat areas which early astronomers had mistaken for seas and which still bore the names of seas. The giant enclosure Clavius, the lagoon-like Plato and ash-strewn Copernicus held their attention. Crag studied the north-south line along which Arzachel lay, wondering again if they could seek out such a relatively small area in the jumbled, broken, twisted land beneath them.

  At some 210,000 miles from earth the Aztec had decelerated to a little over 300 miles per hour. Shortly after entering the moon's gravisphere it began to accelerate again. Crag studied the enemy rocket riding astem. It would be almost abreast them in short time, off to one side of the silver drone. It, too, was accelerating.

  "Going to be nip and tuck," he told Frochaska. The Chief nodded.

  "Don't like the looks of that stinker," he grunted.

  Crag watched the analog a moment longer before turning to the quartz viewport. His eyes filled with wonder. For untold ages lovers had sung of the moon, philospohers had pondered its mysteries, astronomers had scanned and mapped every visible mile of its surface until selenography had achieved an exactness comparable to earth cartography. Scientists had proved beyond doubt that the moon wasn't made of green cheese. But no human eye had ever beheld its surface as Crag was doing now—Crag, Frochaska, Larkwell and Nagel. The latter two were peering through the side ports. Frochaska and Crag shared the forward panel. It was a tribute to the event that no word was spoken. Aside from the Chiefs occasional checks on Drone Able and Bandit —the name stuck—the four pairs of eyes seldom left the satellite's surface.

  The landing plan called for circling the moon during which they were to maneuver Drone Able into independent orbit. It was Crag's job to bring the Aztec down at a precise point,in Crater Arzachel and the Chiefs job to handle the drone landings, a task as ticklish as landing the Aztec itself.

  The spot chosen for landing was in an. area where the Crater's floor was broken by a series of rills—wide, shallow cracks the earth scientists hoped would give protection against the fall of meteorites. Due to lack of atmosphere the particles in space, ranging from dust grains to huge chunks of rock, were more lethal than bullets. They were another unknown in the gamble for the moon. A direct hit by even a grain-sized particle could puncture a space suit and bring instant death. A large one could utterly destroy the rocket itself. Larkweh's job was to construct an airlock in one of the rills from durable lightweight prefabricated plasu'blocks carried in the drones. Such an airlock would protect them from all but vertically falling meteorites.

  Crag felt almost humble in the face of the task they were undertaking. He knew his mind alone could grasp but a minute part of the knowledge that went into making the expedition possible. Their saving lay in the fact they were but agents, protoplasmic extensions of a complex of computers, scientists, plans which had taken years to formulate, and a man named Michael Gotch who had said:

  "You will land on Arzachel."

  He initiated the zero phase by ordering the crew into their pressure suits. Frochaska took over while he donned his own bulky garment, grimacing as he pulled the heavy helmet over his shoulders. Later, in the last moments of descent, he would snap down the face plate and pressurize the suit Until then he wanted all the freedom the bulky garments would allow.

  "Might as well get used to it" Frochaska grinned. He flexed his arms experimentally.

  Larkwefl grunted. "Wait till they're pressurized. You'll think rigor mortis has set in."


  Crag grinned. "That's a condition I'm opposed to."

  "Amen." LarkweD gave a weak experimental jump and prompdy smacked his head against the low overhead. He was smiling foolishly when Nagel snapped at him:

  "One more of those and you'll be walking around the moon without a pressure suit" He peevishly insisted on examining the top of the helmet for damage.

  Crag fervendy hoped they wouldn't need the suits for landing. Any damage that would allow the Aztec's oxygen to escape would in itself be a death sentence, even though death might be dragged over the long period of time it would take to die for lack of food. An intact space cabin represented the only haven in which they could escape from the cumbersome garments long enough to tend their biological needs.

  Imperceptibly the sensation of weight returned, but it was not the body weight of earth. Even on the moon's surface they would weigh but one-sixth their normal weight.

  "Skipper, look." Prochaska's startled exclamation drew Crag's eyes to the radarscope. Bandit had made minute corrections in its course.

  "They're using steering rockets," Crag mused, trying to assess its meaning.

  "Doesn't make sense," said Prochaska. "They can't have that kind of power to spare. They'll need every bit they have for landing."

  "What's up?" Larkwell peered over their shoulders, eyeing the radarscope. Crag bit off an angry retort. Larkwell sensed the rebuff and returned away. They kept their eyes glued to the scope. Bandit maneuvered to a position slighdy behind and to one side of the silver drone. Crag looked out the side port. Bandit was clearly visible, a monstrous cylinder boring through the void with cold precision. There was something ominous about it. He felt the hair prickle at the nape of his neck. Larkwell" moved alongside him.

  Bandit made another minute correction. White vapor shot from its tail and it began to move ahead.

  "Using rocket power," Crag grunted. "Damn if I can figure that one out."

  "Looks crazy to me. I should think—" Prochaska's voice froze. A minute pip broke off from Bandit, boring through space toward the silver drone.

  "Warheadl" Crag roared the word with cold anger.

  Prochaska cursed softly.

  One second Drone Able was there, riding serenely through space. The next it disintegrated, blasted apart by internal explosions. Seconds later only fragments of the drone were visible.

  Prochaska stared at Crag, his face bleak. Crag's brain reeled. He mentally examined what had happened, culling his thoughts until one cold fact remained.

  "Mistaken identity," he said sofdy. "They thought it was the Aztec."

  "Now what?"

  "Now we hope they haven't any more warheads." Crag mulled the possibility. "Considering weight factors, I'd guess they haven't. Besides, there's no profit in wasting a warhead on a drone."

  "We hope." Prochaska studied Bandit through the port, and licked his lips nervously. "Think we ought to contact Alpine?"

  Crag weighed the question. Despite- the tight beam, any communication could be a dead giveaway. On the other hand, Bandit either had the capacity to destroy them or it didn't If it did, well, there wasn't much they could do about it He reached a decision and nodded to Prochaska, then began coding his thoughts.

  He had trouble getting through on the communicator. Finally he got a weak return signal, then sent a brief report. Alpine acknowledged and cut off the air.

  "What now?" Prochaska asked, when Crag had finished.

  He shrugged and turned to the side port without answering. Bandit loomed large, a long thick rocket with an oddly blunted nose. A monster that was as deadly as it looked.

  "Big," he surmised. "Much bigger man this chunk of

  hardware." -

  "Yeah, a regular battleship," Prochaska assented. He grinned crookedly. "In more ways than one."

  Crag sensed movement at his shoulder and turned his head. Nagel was studying the radarscope over his shoulder. Surprise lit his narrow face.

  "The drone?"

  "Destroyed," Crag said bruskly. "Bandit had a warhead."

  Nagel looked startled, then retreated to his seat without a word. Crag returned his attention to the enemy rocket. "What do you think?" he asked Prochaska. His answer was solemn. "It spells trouble."

  CHAPTER 8

  AT A PRECISE point in space spelled out by the Alpine computers Crag applied the first braking rockets. He realized that the act had been an immediate tip-off to the occupants of the other rocket. No matter, he thought. Sooner or later they had to discover it was the drone they had destroyed Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their headlong flight was slowed. He nursed the rockets with care. There was no fuel to spare, no energy to waste, no room for error. Everything had been worked out long beforehand; he was merely the agent of execution.

  The sensation of weight gradually increased. He ordered Larkwell and Nagel into their seats in strapdown position. He and Prochaska shortly, followed, but he left his shoulder harnessing loose to give his arms the vital freedom he needed for the intricate maneuvers ahead.

  The moon rushed toward them at an appalling rate. Its surface was a harsh grille work of black and white, a nightmarish scape of pocks and twisted mountains of rock rimming the flat lunar plains. It was, he thought, the geometry of a maniac. There was no softness, no blend of fight and shadow, only terrible cleavages between black and white. Yet there was a beauty that gripped his imagination;

  the raw, stark beauty of a nature undefiled by life. No eye had ever seen the canopy of the heavens from the bleak surface below; no flower had ever wafted in a lunar breeze.

  Prochaska nudged his arm and indicated the scope. Bandit was almost abreast them. Crag nodded understandingly.

  "No more warheads."

  "Guess we're just loaded with luck," Prochaska agreed wryly.

  They watched . . . waited . . mindless of time. Crag felt the tension building inside him. Occasionally he glanced at the chronometer, itching for action. The wait seemed interminable. Minutes or hours? He, lost track of time.

  All at once his hands and mind were busy with the braking rockets, dials, meters. First the moon had been a pallid giant in the sky; next it filled the horizon. The effect was startling. The limb of the moon, seen as a shallow curved horizon, no longer was smooth. It appeared as a rugged saw-toothed arc, somehow reminding him of the Devil's Golf Course in California's Death Valley. It was weird and wonderful, and slightiy terrifying.

  Prochaska manned the automatic camera to record the orbital and landing phases. He spotted the Crater of Ptolemaeus first, near the center-line of the disc. Crag made a minute correction with the steering rockets. The enemy rocket followed suit Prochaska gave a short harsh laugh without humor.

  "Looks like we're piloting them in. Jeepers, you'd think they could do their own navigation."

  "Shows the confidence they have in us," Crag retorted.

  They flashed high above Ptolemaeus, a crater ninety miles in diameter rimmed by walls three thousand feet high. The crater fled by below them. South lay Alphohs; and farther south, Arzachel, with walls ten thousand feet high rimming its vast depressed interior.

  Prochaska observed quiedy: "Nice rugged spot. Its going to take some doing." "Amen."

  Tm beginning to get that what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling."

  "I've had it right along," Crag confided.

  They caught only a fleeting look at Arzachel before it rushed into the background. Crag touched the braking rockets from time to time, gentiy, precisely, keeping his eyes moving between the radar altimeter and speed indicator while the Chief fed him the course data.

  The back side of the moon was spinning into view—the

  side of the moon never before seen by human eyes. Pro-

  chaska whisded softly. A huge mountain range interlaced

  with valleys and chasms pushed some thirty thousand feet

  into the lunar sides. Long streaks of ochre and brown marked

  its sides, the first color they had seen on the moon. Flat

  h
ighland plains crested between the peaks were dotted with

  strange monolithic structures almost geometrical in their

  distribution. "

  Prochaska was shooting the scene with the automatic camera. Crag twisted around several times to nod reassuringly to Nagel and Larkwell but each time they were occupied with the side ports, oblivious of his gesture. To his surprise Nagel's face was rapt, almost dreamy, completely absorbed by the stark lands below. Larkwell, too, was quiet with wonder.

  The jagged mountains fell away to a great sea, larger even than Mare Imbrium, and like Mare Imbrium, devoid of life. A huge crater rose from its center, towering over twenty thousand feet. Beyond lay more mountains. The land between was a wild tangle of rock, a place of unutterable desolation. Crag was fascinated and depressed at the same time. The Aztec was closing around the moon in a tight spiral.

  The alien landscape drew visibly nearer. He switched his attention between the braking rockets and instruments, trying to manage a quick glance at the scope. Prochaska caught his look.

  "Bandit's up on us," he confirmed.

  Crag uttered a vile epithet and Prochaska grinned. He liked to hear him growl, taking it as a good sign.

  Crag glanced worriedly at the radar altimeter and hit the braking rockets harder. The quick deceleration gave the impression of added weight, pushing them hard against their chest harnesses.

  He found it difficult to make the precise hand movements required. The Aztec was dropping with frightening rapidity. They crossed more mountains, seas, craters, great chasms. Time had become meaningless—had ceased to exist. The sheer bleakness of the face of the moon gripped his imagination. He saw it as the supreme challenge, the magnitude of which took his breath. He was Cortez scanning the land of the Aztecs. More, for this stark lonely terrain had never felt the stir of life. No benevolent Maker had created this chaos. It was an infemo without fire—a hell of a kind never known on earth. It was the handiwork of a nature on a rampage—a maddened nature whose molding clay had been molten lava.