Authors: First on the Moon
"Roger,"
Prochaska cut in. Nagel gave an affirmative grunt.
Crag
lowered two of Bandit's cylinders and the stretcher to the floor of the crater,
then
took a last look around the cabin. Gotch, he
knew, would ask him a thousand technical questions regarding the rocket's
construction, equipment, and provisioning. He filed the mental pictures away
for later analysis and turned to Larkwell.
"Let's
go." They descended to the plain and rolled the unconscious crewman onto
the stretcher. Crag grunted as he hoisted his end. It wasn't going to be easy.
The
return trip proved a nightmare.
Despite the moon's low
surface gravity—one-sixth that of earth—the stretcher seemed an intolerable
weight pulling at their arms.
They trudged slowly toward the Aztec with
Crag in the lead, their feet kicking up little fountains of dust.
Before
they had gone half a mile,' they were sweating profusely and their arms and
shoulders ached
Under
their burden. Larkwell walked
silently, steadily, but his breath was becoming a hoarse pant in Crag's
earphones. The thought came to Crag that they wouldn't make it if, by any
chance, Nagel failed to meet them. But he can't fail—not with Prochaska guiding
them, he thought.
They
reached the end of the rill and stopped to rest Crag checked his oxygen meter.
Not good. Not good at all, but he didn't say anything to Larkwell. The
construction boss swung his eyes morosely over the plain and cursed.
"Nine
planets and thirty-one satellites in the Solar System and we had to pick this
dog," he grumbled. "Gotch must be near-sighted."
Crag
sighed and picked up his end of the stretcher. When Larkwell had followed suit
they resumed their trek. They were moving around the base of a small knoll when
Lark-well's foot struck a pothole in the ash and he stumbled. He dropped the
end of the stretcher in trying to regain his balance. It struck hard against
the ground, transmitting the jolt to Crag's aching shoulders. He lowered his
end of the stretcher, fearful the plow had damaged the.
injured
man's helmet. Larkwell watched unsympathetically while he examined it.
"Won't make much difference," he
said. Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
"Yeah, carrying
Lucifer."
The
helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. They hoisted the
stretcher and resumed then-slow trek toward the Aztec.
Crag's
body itched from perspiration. His face was.
hot
,
flushed and his heart thudded in his ears. LarkweQ's breathing became a harsh
rasp in the interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Crag
thought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meter
several times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears into words.
"We'd
better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," he growled.
"We're not going to make it this way."
"Nagel should reach us soon."
"Soon won't be soon enough."
"Nagel!
Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
"Moving right along."
The oxygen man's voice was a flat
unperturbed twang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm
was maddening. But it was then-necks that were in danger. He repressed his
anger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemy crewman.
If he lived?
In
short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point of telling him to
shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He was moving slowly, stooped
under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders. He appeared somewhat like an
ungainly robot, moving with mechanical steps—the movements of a machine rather
than a man. Crag kept his eyes on him. Nagel never faltered, never changed
pace. His figure grew steadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray
ash. Crag suddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked the
strength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added to his
despair.
They
met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash and squirmed to
straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure in the stretcher, then
at Crag.
Itoesn't
make
much sense to me," he said critically.
"Where are we going to get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?"
"That's my worry," Crag snapped
shortly. "Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen
man."
Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was
none. Nagel was merely stating a fact—an honest worry. His temper was subsiding
when Larkwell spoke.
"He's
right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill. Hell, we've
got worries enough without
. ."
"Knock
it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence during which the
others looked defiantly at him.
"Stop
the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He fek on the verge of
an explosion, wanted to lash out Take, it- easy, he told himself.
With
fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier. Prochaska was
waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to the safety of the space
cabin. When it was pressurized they removed their suits and Crag began to strip
the heavy space garments from the injured man's body. He finished and stepped
back, letting him lie on the deck.
They stood in a tight half-circle, silendy
studying the inert figure. It was that of an extremely short man, about five
feet, Crag judged, and
thin
A thinness without emaciation. His face was
pale, haggard and, like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He
appeared in his
late
thirties or early forties
but Crag surmised he was much younger. His chest rose and fell irregularly and
his breathing was harsh. Crag knelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow,
fast.
"I
don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries
...
or just a bad concussion,"
"To hell with him," spat Larkwell.
Prochaska
said, "Hell either five or die. In either case there's not much we can do
about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact. Crag nodded
agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding over the possible
complications of having an enemy in their midst when his nostrils caught a
familiar whiff. He turned, startled.
The Chief ■was
holding a pot of coffee.
"I did smuggle one small helping,"
he confessed.
Crag
looked thoughtfully at the pot. "I should cite you for a court-martial.
However ."
He reached for the cup the Chief was
extending.
They drank the.
coffee
slowly, savoring each
drop, while
Larkwell outlined their next step. It was one Crag had been
worrying about,
'
"As
you know, the plans call for living in the Aztec until we can get a sheltered
airlock into operation," Larkwell explained. "To do that we gotta
lower this baby to the horizontal so I can loosen the afterburner section and
clear out the gunk. Then we can get the prime airlock installed and working.
That should give us ample quarters until we can build the permanent lock—maybe
in that rill we passed."
"We
got to rush that," Nagel cut in. "Right now we lose total cabin
pressure every time we stir out of this trap. We can't keep it up for
long."
Crag nodded. Nagel was right. The airlock had
to be the first order of business. The plans called for just such a move and,
accordingly, the rocket had been designed with such a conversion in mind. Only
it had been planned as a short-term^ stopgap—one to be used only until a below-surface
airlock could be constructed. Now that Drone Able had been lost-
"Gofly,
whatH we do with all the room?" Prochaska broke in humorously. He flicked
his eyes around the cabin. "Just imagine, well be able to sleep stretched
out instead of doubled up in a bucket seat."
Larkwell
took up the conversation and they listened while he outlined the step-by-step
procedure. It was his show and they gave him full stage. He suggested they
might be able to use one of Aztec's now useless servo motors in the task. When
he finished, Crag glanced down at the Bandit crewman. Pale blue eyes stared
back at him. Ice-blue, calm, yet tinged with mockery. They exchanged a long
look.
"Feel
better?" Crag finally asked, wondering if by any chance he spoke English.
"Yes,
thank you." The voice held the barest suggestion of an accent.
"We
brought you to our
ship ."
Crag stopped, wondering
how to proceed. After all the man was an enemy. A dangerous one at that
"So I see." The
voice was laconic. "Why?"
"
We'm
bmnsa,"
snapped Crag brutally. The pale blue eyes regarded htm intentiy.
"I'm
Adam Crag, Commander," he added. The Bandit crewman tried to push himself
up on his elbow. His face blanched and he fell back.
"I
seem to be a trifle weak," he apologized. He looked at the circle of faces
before his eyes settled back on Crag. "My name is Richter. Otto Richter.
" ,
Prochaska said, "That's a German
name."
J
T
am
German."
"On an Iron Curtain rocket?"
Nagel asked sarcastically. Richter gave the
oxygen man a long cool look.
"That
seems to be the case," he said finally. The group fell silent. It was
Crag's move. He hesitated. When he spoke his tone was decisive.
"We're
stuck with you. For the time being you may regard yourself as confined. You
will not be allowed any freedom
. .
until
we decide what to do with you."
"I understand."
"As
soon as we modify the valves on your suit to fit our cylinders we're going to
move you outside^ He instructed Nagel to get busy on the valves, then turned
to Larkwell.
"Let's get along with
lowering this baby."
CHAPTER 10
"Gordon Nagel
?" The professor turned the name over in
his mind. "Yes, I believe I recall him. Let's see, that would have been
about .
." He
paused, looking thoughtfully into space.
The
agent said, "Graduated in '55.
One -of your honor
students."
"Ah,
yes, how could I have forgotten?" The Professor folded his hands across
his plump stomach and settled back in his chair.
"I
seem to recall him as sort of an intense, nervous type," he said at last.
"Sort of withdrawn but, as you mentioned, quite brilliant. Now that I
think of it—"
He
abruptly stopped speaking .and looked at the agent with a startled face.
"You mean the man in the moon?" he
blurted. "Yes, that's the one."
"Ah,
no wonder the name sounded so familiar. But, of course, we have so many famous
alumni. Ruthni University prides itself—"
"Of course," the agent cut in.
The
professor gave him a hurt look before he began talking again. He rambled at
length. Every word he uttered was taped on the agent's pocket recorder.
"Gordon Nagel, the young man on the moon
flight? Why certainly I recall young Nagel," the high school principal
said. "A fine student . . . one of the best," He looked archly at the
agent down a long thin nose.
"Braxton
High School is extremely proud of Gordon Nagel.
Extremely
proud.
If I say so
myself
he has set a mark for
other young men to strive for."
"Of course," the agent agreed.
"This
is a case which well vindicates the stress we've put on the physical and life
sciences," the principal continued. "It is the objective of Braxton
High School to give every qualified student the groundwork he needs for later
academic success. That is, students with sufficiently high I.Q.," he
added.