Jeff Sutton (12 page)

"Mighty wide,"
Larkwell observed, coming up.

"Yeah,"
said Crag, indecisively. The rift was about twenty feet wide, its bottom lost
in black shadows.

Larkwell
studied the chasm carefully. "Might be just the rill we need for an
airlock. If it's not too deep," he added. He picked up a boulder and
dropped it over the edge, waiting expectantly. Crag chuckled. The construction
man had forgotten that sound couldn't be transmitted through a vacuum. Larkwell
caught the laugh in his earphones and smiled weakly.

He said sheepishly,
"Something else to learn."

"We've
plenty to learn." Crag looked both ways. To the right the chasm seemed to
narrow and, although he wasn't sure, end.

"Let's
try it," he suggested. Larkwell nodded agreement. They trudged along the
edge of the fissure, walking slowly to conserve their energy. The plain became
more uneven. Small outcroppings of black glassy rock punctured the ash,
becoming more numerous as they progressed. Occasional saw-toothed needles
pierced the sky. Several times they stopped and looked back at the Aztec. It
was a black cylinder, smaller yet seemingly
close
.

Crag's
guess was right. The chasm narrowed abruptly and tenninated at the base of a
small knoll. Both rockets were now hidden by intervening rocks. He hesitated
before striking out, keeping Backbone Ridge to his right. The ground became
progressively more uneven. They trudged onward for over a mile before he caught
sight of the Aztec again. He
paused,
with the feeling
something was wrong. Larkwell put it into words.

"Lost."

"Not
lost, but off course." Crag took a moment to get his bearings and then
struck out again thinking their oxygen supply couldn't stand many of these
mistakes.

"How you doing,
Skipper?"

Crag
gave a start before remembering that Prochaska and Nagel were cut into their
intercom.

"Lousy," he told them. He gave a
brief run-down.

"Just happened to think that I could help guide you.
Ill
work
you with
the scope," Prochaska said.

"Of
course," Crag exclaimed, wondering why they hadn't thought of it before.
One thing was certain: they'd have to start remembering a lot of things.
Thereafter, they checked with Frochaska every few minutes.

The
ground constantly changed as they progressed. One moment it was level, dusty
with ash; the next it was broken by low rocky ridges and interlacing chasms.
Minutes extended into seeming hours and they had to stop for rest from time to
time. Crag was leading the way across a small ravine when LarkweU's voice
brought him up short:

"Commander, we're
forgetting something.''

"What?"

"Radcounters.
Mine's whispering a tune I didn't like."

"Not
a thing to worry about," Crag assured him. "Thé raw ores aren't that
potent." Nevertheless he unhooked his counter and studied it. Larkwell was
right
They
were on hot ground but the count was low.

"Won't bother us a
bit," he affirmed cheerfully.

LarkweU's
answer was a grunt. Crag checked the instrument several times thinking that
before long—when they were settled—they would mark off the boundaries of the
lode. Cotch would want that. The count rose slightly. Once he caught Larkwell
nervously consulting his meter. Clearly the construction boss wasn't too happy
over their position. Crag wanted to tell him he had been reading too many
Sunday supplements but didn't

Frochaska
broke in, "You're getting close." His voice was a faint whisper over
the phones. "Maybe you'd better make a cautious approach."

Crag
remembered the fate of Drone Able and silently agreed. Thereafter he kept his
eyes peeled. They climbed a small knoll and saw Bandit He abruptly halted,
waiting until Larkwell reached his side.

The rocket lay at the base of the slope,
which fell away before them. It was careened at a crazy angle with its base
crumpled. A wide cleft
r
unnin
g
half way to its nose was
visible. Crag studied the rocket carefully.

"Might still be oxygen in the space
cabin," he ventured finally. "The break in the hull might not reach
that far."

"It
does," Larkwell corrected. His eyes, trained in construction work, had
noted small cracks in the metal extending up alongside the hatch.

"No survivors in
there," he grunted.

Crag
s.aid thoughtfully: "Might be, if they had on their pressure suits. And
they would have," he added.

He
hesitated before striking across the clearing,
then
began moving down the slope. Larkwell followed slowly. As he neared the rocket
Crag saw that it lacked any type of failing device to absorb the landing
impact. That, at least, had been one secret kept, he thought. He was wondering
how to get into the space cabin when Larkwell solved the problem. He drew a
thin hemp line from a leg pocket and began uncoiling it. Crag smiled approval.

"Never
without one in the construction business,"
he explained
.
He studied Bandit. "Maybe I can hook it over the top of that busted tail
fin,
then
work my way up the break in the hull."

"Let me try,"
Crag offered. The climb looked hazardous.

"This
is my province." Larkwell snorted. He ran his eye over the ship before
casting the line. He looked surprised when it shot high above the intended
target point.

"Keep
forgetting the low gravity," he apologized. He tried again. On the third
throw he hooked the line over the torn tailfin. He rubbed his hands against his
suit then started upward, climbing clumsily, each movement exaggerated by the
bulky suit. He progressed slowly, testing each step. Crag held his breath.
Larkwell gripped the line-with his body swung outward, his feet planted against
the vertical metal, reminding Crag of a human fly. He stopped to rest just
below the level of the space cabin.

"Thought
a man was supposed to be able to jump thirty feet on the moon," he panted.

"You can if you peel those duds
off," Crag replied cheerfully. He ran his eye over the break noting the
splintered metal. "Be careful of your suit."

Larkwell
didn't answer. He was busy again trying to pull his body upward, using the
break in the-hull to obtain finger grips. Only the moon's low gravity allowed
him to perform what looked like an impossible task. He finally reached a point
alongside the hatch and paused, breathing heavily. He rested a moment,
then
carefully inserted his hand into the break in the hull.
After a moment he withdrew it, and fumbled in his leg pocket withdrawing a
switchblade knife.

"Got
to cut through the lining," he explained. He worked the knife around
inside the break for several minutes, then closed the blade and reinserted his
hand, feeling around until he located the lockbar.

He
tugged. It didn't give. He braced his body and exerted all of his strength.
This time it moved. He rested a moment then turned his attention to the
remaining doglocks. In short time he had the hatch open. Carefully, then, he
pulled his body across to the black rectangle and disappeared inside.

"See anything?'' Crag
shifted his feet resdessly.

"Dead men."
Larkwell's voice sounded relieved over the phones. "Smashed face
plates." There was a long moment of silence. Crag waited impatiently.

"Just
a second," he finally reported. "Looks like a live one." There
was another interval of silence while Crag stewed. Finally he appeared in the
opening with a hemp ladder.

"Knew
they had to have some way of getting out of this trap," he announced
triumphandy. He knelt and secured one end to the hatch combing and let the
other end drop to the ground.

Crag
climbed to meet him. Larkwell extended a hand and helped him through the hatch.
One glance at the interior of the cabin told him that any life left was little
short of a miracle. The man in the pilot's seat lay with his faceplate smashed
against the instrument panel. The top of his fiberglass helmet had shattered
and the top of his head was a bloody mess. A second crewman was sprawled over
the communication console with his face smashed into the radar-scope. His suit
had been ripped from shoulder to waist and one leg was twisted at a crazy
angle. Crag turned his eyes away.

"Here,"
Larkwell grunted. He was bent over the third and last crewman, who had been
strapped in a bucket seat immediately behind the pilot. Crag moved to his side
and looked down at the recumbent figure. The man's suit seemed to have
withstood the terrible impact. His helmet looked intact, and his faceplate was
clouded.

Frochaska nodded
affirmatively. "Breathing,'' he said.

Crag
knelt and checked the unconscious man as best he could before finally getting
back to his feet.

"It's going to be a
helluva job getting him back."

Larkwell's
eyes opened with surprise. "You mean we're going to lug that bastard back
to the Aztec?"

"We are."

Larkwell
didn't reply. Crag loosened the unconscious man from his harnessing. Larkwell
watched for a while before stooping to help. When the last straps were free
they pulled him close to the edge of the hatch opening. Crag made a mental
inventory of the cabin while Larkwell unscrewed two metal strips from a
bulkhead and laced straps from the safety harnessing between them, making a
crude stretcher.

Crag
opened a narrow panel built into the rear bulkhead and involuntarily whistled
into his hp mike. It contained two short-barreled automatic rifles and a supply
of ammunition. Larkwell eyed the arms speculatively.

"Looks like they
expected good hunting," he observed.

"Yeah,"
Crag grimly agreed. He slammed the metal panel shut and looked distastefully at
the unconscious man. "I've a damned good notion to leave him here."

"That's what I was
thinkin
g"

Crag
debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're elected as
angels of mercy. WelL let's go."

"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss
spat.
He
looped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled
him
to the brink of the opening.

"Ought
to shove
him
out and let
him
bounce a while," he growled.

Crag
didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metal stanchion and
signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through the hatch. Crag let the line
out slowly until it became slack. Larkwell straightened up and leaned against
the hatch combing with a foolish look on his face. Crag took one look at his
gaping expression.

"Oxygen,"
he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extra cylinder from his belt
and hooked it into Larkwell's suit,
turning
the
valve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatch combing
before Crag managed to pull him to safety.

Within
moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quickly checked his own
oxygen. It was low.
Too low.
The time they had lost
taking the wrong
route .
.
the
time taken to open Bandit's hatch .
had
upset NageFs
oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember in the future. He
switched cylinders,
then
made a rapid calculation. It
was evident they couldn't carry- the injured man back with the amount of oxygen
remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem to Nagel.

"Try
one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit"

"No
go. I've already looked them over." He kicked the problem around in bis
mind.

"Here's
the routine," he told him. "You start out to meet us with a couple of
extra cylinders. Well take along a couple of Bandit's spares to last this
critter until you can modify the valves on his suit to fit our equipment.
Frochaska can guide the works. Okay?"