Jeff Sutton (20 page)

The
man nearest him had gotten into a prone position and was doing something with
the end of his rifle. Crag watched, puzzled. Suddenly the man brought the rifle
to his shoulder, and he saw that the end of the muzzle was bulged. Rifle
grenade! Damn, they'd brought a regular arsenal. If he managed to place one in
the open hatch, the Bandit crew was doomed. Heedless of the other two Red Dog
crewmen, he stepped out between the shoulders of rock to gain freedom of
movement and snapped his own weapon to his shoulder. He had trouble fitting his
finger into the trigger guard. The enemy was spraddled on his stomach, legs
apart, adjusting his body to steady his weapon.

Crag
moved his weapon up, bringing the prone man squarely into his sights. He
squeezed the trigger, feeling the weapon jump against his padded shoulder, and
leaped back into the protective cover of rock. Something struck his face plate.
Splinter of rock, he thought
The
watcher on the ridge
hadn't been asleep. He dropped to his knees and crawled between the rock spurs
to gain a new position. The sharp needle fragments under his hands and knees
troubled him. One small rip and he'd be the late Adam Crag. He finally reached
a place where he could see the lower end of the ridge.

The
man he'd shot was a motionless blob on the rocky floor, his arms and legs
pulled up in a grotesque fetal position. The vulnerability of human life on the
moon struck Crag forcibly. A bullet hole anywhere meant sudden violent death. A
hit on the finger was as fatal as a shot through the heart
Once
air pressure in a suit was lost a man was dead —horribly dying within seconds.
A pinhole in the suit was enough to do it. His eyes searched for the dead man's
companions. The ridge and plain seemed utterly lifeless. Bandit was a black
canted monolith rising above the plain, seeming to symbolize the utter
desolation and silence of Crater Arzachel. For a moment he was fascinated. The
very scene portended death. It was an eery feeling. He shook it off and waited.
He was finally rewarded by movement. A portion of rock near the edge of
the'plain seemed to rise-took shape. The dead man's companion had risen to a
kneeling position, holding his rifle to his shoulder.

Crag
raised his gun, wondering if he could hold the man in his sights. A hundred and
fifty yards to a rifleman clothed in a cumbersome space suit seemed a long way.
Before he could pull the trigger, the man flung his arms outward, clawing at
his throat for an instant before slumping to the rocks. It took Crag a second
to comprehend what had happened. Prochaska had been ready.

A
figure suddenly filled the dark rectangle of Bandit, pointing''toward the ridge
behind Crag. He apparently was trying to tell him something. Crag scanned the
ridge. It seemed deserted. He turned toward Bandit and motioned toward his
faceplate. The other understood. His interphones crackled to life. Prochaska's
voice was welcome.

"I
see him," he broke in.
"He's moving up the slope to your right, trying to reach the top of the
ridge. Too far for a shot," he added.

Crag
scrambled into a clearing and scanned the ridge, just in time to see a figure
disappear over .the skyline. He started up the slope in a beeline for the
crest. If he could reach it in time, he might prevent the sniper from crossing
the open plain which lay between the ridge and Red Dog. Cops and robbers, he
thought. Another childhood game had suddenly been recreated, this time on the
bleak plain of an airless alien crater 240,000 miles from the sunny Southern
California lands of his youth.

Crag
reached the ridge. The plain on the other side seemed devoid of life. In the
distance the squat needle that was Red Dog jutted above the ashy plain, an incongruous
human artifact lost on the wastelands of the moon. Only its symmetry
distinguished it from the jagged monolithic structures that dotted this end of
the crater floor. He searched the slope. Movement far down the knoll to his right
caught his eye. The fugitive was trying to reach a point beyond range of Crag's
weapon before cutting across the plain. He studied the terrain. Far ahead and
to the left of the invader the crater floor became broken by bizarre rock
formations of Backbone Ridge—a great half-circle which arced back toward Red
Dog. He guessed that the fantastic land ahead was the fugitive's goal.

He
cut recklessly down the opposite slope and gained the floor of the crater
before turning in the direction he had last seen the invader. He cursed himself
for having lost sight of him. Momentarily, he slowed his pace, thinking he was
ripe for a bushwhacking job. His eyes roved the terrain. No movement, no sign
of his quarry. He moved quickly, but warily, attempting to search every inch of
the twisted rock formations covering the slope ahead. His eye detected movement
off to one side. At the same instant a warning sounded in his brain and he
flung himself downward and to the side, hitting the rough ground with a
sickening thud. He sensed that the action had saved his life. He crawled
between some rock outcroppings, hugging the ground until he reached a vantage
point overlooking the area ahead. He waited, trying to search the slope without
exposing his position. Minutes passed.

He tossed
his head resdessly. His eyes roved the plain, searching, attempting to discern
movement. No movement-only a world of still life-forms. The plain—its rocks and
rills—stretched before
him,
barren and endless. Strange, he thought,
there should be vultures in the sky. And on the plain creosote bushes, purple
sage, cactus . . . coyotes and rattlesnakes.

But .
.
no
! This was
an other
-world desert, one spawned in the fires of hell—a
never-never land of scalding heat and unbelievable cold. He thought it was like
a painting by some mad artist. First he had sketched in the plain with infinite
care—a white-black, monotonous, unbroken expanse. Afterward he had splashed in
the rocks, painting with wild abandon, heedless of design, form or structure,
until the plain was a hodgepodge of bizarre formations. They towered, squatted,
pierced the sky, crawled along the plain like giant serpents—an orgy in rock
without rhyme or reason. Somewhere in the lithic jungle his quarry waited. He
would flush him out.

He thought that the sniper must be getting
low on oxygen. He couldn't afford to waste time. He had to reach Red Dog
soon—if he were to live. Crag checked his oxygen meter and began moving
forward, conscious that the chase would be governed by his oxygen supply. He'd
have to remember that.

He reached a clearing on the slope just as
the sniper disappeared into the rock shadows on the opposite side. He
hesitated. Would the pursued man be
waiting .
covering
the trail behind him? He decided not to chance
crossing it and began skirting around its edge, fretting at the minutes wasted.
His earphones crackled and Prochaska's voice came, a warning through the
vacuum:

"Nagel says your
oxygen must be low." ■>

He glanced at the indicator on his cylinder.
Still safe.
He studied the rocks ahead and told Frochaska:

Tve got to keep this baby
from reaching Red Dog."

"Watch
yourself. Don't go beyond the point of no return.'' Prochaska's voice held
concern.

"Stop worrying."

Crag pushed around the edge of the clearing
with reckless haste. It was hard going and he was panting heavily long before
he reached the spot where he had last seen the sniper.

He
paused to catch his breath. The slope fell away beneath him, a miniature
kingdom of jagged needle-sharp rock. There was no sign of the fugitive. The
plain, too, was devoid of life. He descended to the edge of the clearing and
picked his way through the debris of some eon-old geologic catastrophe. Ahead
and to the left of the ridge, the plain was broken by shallow rills and weird
rock outcrop-pings. Farther out Backbone Ridge began as low mounds of stone,
becoming twisted blade stalagmites hunched incongruously against the floor of
the crater, ending as jagged sharp needles of rock curving over the plain in a
huge arc.

A
moment later he caught sight of his quarry. The invader had cut down to the
edge of the plain, abandoning the protection of the ridge, making a beeline for
the nearest rock extrusion on the floor of the crater.
Too
far away for a shot.
Crag cursed and made a quick judgment, deciding to
risk the open terrain in hopes of gaining shelter before the sniper was aware
of his strategy.

He
abandoned the protection of the slope and struck out in a straight line toward
the distant mounds on the floor of the crater, keeping his eyes on the
fugitive. They raced across the clearing in parallel paths, several hundred
yards apart. The sniper had almost reached the first rocks when he glanced
back. He saw Crag and put on an extra burst of speed, reaching the first rocks
while Crag was still a hundred yards from the nearest mound. Crag dropped to
the ground, thankful that it was slightly uneven. At best he'd make a poor
target. He crawled, keeping his body low, tossing his head in an effort to
shake the perspiration from his eyes.

"How
you doing, skipperr" It was Frochaska. Lousy, Crag thought. He briefed him
without slowing his pace.

The
ashy plain just in front of him spurted in little fountains of white dust He
dropped flat on his belly with a gasp.

"You all rightf"

"Okay,"
Crag gritted. "This boy's just using me for target practice."
Prochaska's voice became alarmed. He urged him to retreat

"We can get them some
other way," he said.

"Not
if they once get that launcher in operation. I'm moving on." There was a
moment of silence.

"Okay,
skipper, but watch yourself." His voice was reluctant. "And watch
your oxygen.

"Roger."
He checked his gauge and hurriedly switched to the second cylinder. Now he was
on the last one. The trick would be to stretch his .oxygen out until the chase
was ended—until the man ahead was a corpse.

He
clung to the floor of the crater, searching for shelter. The ground rose
slightiy to his right He crawled toward the rise, noting that the terrain
crested high enough to cut his view of the base of the rocks. Satisfied that he
was no longer visible, he began inching his way toward the nearest mounds.

CHAPTER 16

Crag studied
the- scene. He lay at one end of the great
crescent of rock forming Backbone Ridge, the other end of which ended about
half a mile from Red Dog. The floor of the crater between the rocket and the
nearest rock formations was fairly level and unbroken. The arced formation
itself was a veritable jungle of rocks of every type—gnarled, twisted rock that
hugged the ground, jutting black pinnacles piercing the sky, bizarre bubble
formations which appeared like weird ebony esldrno cities, and great fantastic
ledges which extruded from the earth at varying angles, forming black caves
against their bases.
_:

Whole
armies could hide there, he thought. Only the fugitive couldn't hide. Oxygen
was still the paramount issue. He'd have to thread his way through the terrible
rock jungle to the distant tip of the crescent, then plunge across the open
plain to the rocket if he hoped to survive. The distance between the horns of
the crescent appeared about three miles. He pondered it thoughtfully, then got
on the interphones and outlined his plan to Prochaska.

"Okay,
I know better than to argue," the Chief said dolefully when he had
finished. "But watch your oxygen." Damn the oxygen, Crag thought
irritably. He studied the labyrinth of rock into which his quarry had vanished,
then rose and started across the plain in a direct line for the opposite tip of
the crescent.

The
first moments were the hardest. After that he knew he must be almost out of
range of the sniper's weapon. Perhaps, even, the other had not seen his
maneuver. He forced himself into a slow trot, his breath whistling in his ears
and his body sodden inside his suit. Perspiration stung his eyes, his leg muscles
ached almost intolerably, and every movement seemed made on sheer will power.
The whimsical thought crossed his mind that Gotch had never painted this side
of the picture. Nor was it mentioned in the manual of space survival.

He
was thankful that the plain between the two tips of the crescent was fairly
even. He moved quickly, but it was a long time before he reached the further
tip of the crescent He wondered if he had been observed from Red Dog. Well, no
matter, he thought. He had cut the sniper's sole avenue of escape. Victory over
his quarry was just a matter of time, a matter of waiting for him to appear. He
picked a vantage point, a high rocky ledge which commanded all approaches to
his position. After briefing Frochaska, he setded back to wait, thinking that
the fugitive must be extremely low on oxygen.