Jeff Sutton (26 page)

They
were all there when he arrived, gathered around Prochaska's huddled form. The
yellow lights of their torches pinned his body against the ashy plain. LarkwelL
on his
knees,
was running his hands over the
electronic chiefs body. Crag dropped to
bis
side.

"Here it is!"

Larkwell's
fingers had found the hole, a tiny rip just under the shoulder. Crag examined
it, conscious that something was wrong. It didn't look like the kind of hole a
meteorite would make. It
looked,
he thought, like, a
small rip. The kind of a rip a knife point might make. He stared up at
Larkwell. The construction boss's eyes met his and he nodded his head
affirmatively. Crag got to his feet and faced the German.

"Where were you when
this happened?"

"Ahead
of him," Richter answered, "We were strung out I think I was next in
line behind you."

Larkwell
said softly: "You got here before I did. That would put you behind
me."

"I
was ahead of you when we started." The German contemplated Larkwell
calmly. "I didn't see you pass me."

Crag turned to Nagel.
"Where were you, Gordon?"

"At
the rear, as usual."
His voice was bitter.

"How far was Prochaska
ahead of you?"

"I
wouldn't know." He looked away into the blackness, then back to Crag.
"Would you expect me to?"

Crag
debated. Clearly he wasn't getting anywhere with the interrogation. He looked
at NageL
The
man seemedjm the verge of collapse.

"Well
carry Max back. Lend a hand, Richter." His voice turned cold "I want
to examine that rip in the fight."

The German nodded calmly.

"Stay
together," Crag barked. "No -stringing out Larkwell, you lead the
way."

"Okay."
The construction boss started toward Bandit. Nagel fell in at his heels. Crag
and Richter, carrying Prochaska's body between them, brought up at the rear.

It
took the last of Crag's strength
before,
they managed
to get the body into the space cabin.

The
men were silent while he conducted his examination. He removed the dead man's
space suit,
then
stripped the clothing from the upper
portion of his body, examining the flesh in the area where the suit had been
punctured. The skin was unmarked. He studied the rip carefully. It was a clean
slit

"No
meteorite," he said, getting to his feet His voice was cold, dangerously
low. Larkwell's face was grim. Nagel wore a dazed, almost uncomprehending
expression. Richter looked thoughtful. Crag's face was an icy mask but his
thoughts were chaotic. Fear crept into his mind. This was the danger Cotch had
warned him of.

Richter?
The saboteur?
His eyes swung from man to man, coming
finally to rest on the German. While he weighed the problem, one part of his
mind told him a warhead was scorching down from the skies. Time was running
out. He came to a decision. He ordered Larkwell and Richter to strip the
pressure gear from Prochaska's body and carry it down to the plain.

"Well bury him
later—after the warhead."

"If we're here,"
Larkwell observed.

"I have every
intention of being here," Crag said evenly.

CHAPTER 20

The
day
of the warhead
arrived.

The
earth was a thin crescent in the sky whose light no longer paled the stars.
They gleamed, hard and britde against the purple-black of space, the reds and
yellows and brilliant hot blues of suns lying at unimaginable distances in the
vast box of the universe. Night still gripped Crater Arzachel with its
intolerable cold, but a zodiacal light in the sky whispered of a lunar dawn to
come. Measured against the incalculable scale of space distances the rocket
had but a relative inch to cross. That inch was almost crossed. The rocket's
speed had dropped to a mere crawl, before it entered the moon's gravitational
field; then it had picked up again, moving ever faster toward its rendezvous
with destruction. Now it was storming down into the face of the land.

They
buried Red Dog. Larkwell had improvised a crude scraper made of metal strips
from the interior of Drone Baker to aid in the task. He attached loops of cable
to pull it. Crag, Larkwell and Richter wearily dragged the scraper across the
plain, heaping the ash into piles, while Nagel handled the easier job of
pushing them over the edge of the rilL

The
unevenness of the plain and occasional rock outer oppings made the work
exasperatingly slow. Crag fumed but there was little he could do to rectify the
situation. It took the better part of eight hours before the rill was filled
level with the plain, with only the extreme end of the tail containing the
airlock being left accessible.

"Won't
do a damn bit of good if anything
big ..comes
down," Larkwell observed when they had finished.

"There's
not much chance of a major hit,*' Crag conjectured
. "
It's
the small stuff that worries me."

"Bandit would be just
as safe," Larkwell persisted.

"Perhaps."
He turned away from the construction boss. Richter was swinging his
arms and stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. Nagel sat dejectedly on
a rock, head buried in his arms. Crag felt a momentary pity for him— a pity
tinged with resentment Nagel was the weak link in their armor—a threat to their
safety. For all practical purposes two men—he didn't include Richter—were
doing the work of three. Yet, he thought, he couldn't exclude the German. The
oxygen and supplies he consumed were less than those they had obtained from
Bandit and Red Dog. And Richter worked—worked with a calm, relentless purpose—more
than made up for Nagel's inability to shoulder his share. Maybe Richter was a
blessing in disguise. He smiled grimly at the thought. But we're all
shot,
he told himself—all damned tired. Someone had to be
the first to cave in.
So why not Nagel?

He looked skyward. The stars reminded him of
glittering chunks of ice in some celestial freezebox. He moved his arms
vigorously, conscious of the bitter cold gnawing at his bones—sharp needles
stabbing his arms and legs. He was cold, yet his body felt clammy. He became
conscious of a dull ache at the nape of his neck. Thought of the warhead
stirred him to action.

"We gotta fOT this baby," he said,
speaking to no one in particular.
Oxygen .
.
food
. . . gear. There's not much time left."

Larkwell snickered.
"You can say that again."

Crag
said thinly: "Well make it." He looked sympathetically at NageL

"Come on, Gordon. We
gotta move."

Crag
kept the men close together, in single file, with Larkwell leading. He was
followed by Nagel. Crag brought up at the rear. Memory of Prochaska's fate
burned in his mind and he kept his attention riveted on the men ahead of him.
They trudged through the night, slowly; wearily following the serpentine path
toward Bandit. He occasionally flicked on his torch, splaying it over the
column, checking the positions of the men ahead of him. They rounded the end of
a rill, half-circled the base of a small knoll, winding their way toward'
Bandit. Overhead Altair formed a great triangle with Deneb and Vega.
An
tares gleamed red from the heart of Scorpius. Off to one
side lay Sagittarius, the Archer. He thought that the giant hollow of Arzachel
must be the loneliest spot in
all the
universe. He
felt numbed, drained of all motion.

"Commander."

The single imperative call snapped him to
attention.

"Come quick. Something's wrong with
Nagel!"

Crag
leaped ahead, flashing his torch. He saw Richter's form bent over a recumbent
figure while his mind registered the fact that it was the German's voice he had
heard. He leaped to his side, keeping his eyes pinned on Richter until he saw
the man's hands were empty. He knelt by Nagel —his suit was inflated! Crag
breathed easier. He said briefly: "Exhaustion."

Richter
nodded. An odd rumble sounded in Crag's earphones, rising and falling. It took
him a moment to realize it was Nagel snoring. He rose, in a secret sweat of
mingled relief and apprehension, and looked down at the recumbent form,
thankful they were near Bandit.

LarkweD grunted, "Gets
tougher all the time."

It
took the three of them to get Nagel back to the rocket. Crag pressurized the
cabin and opened the sleeping man's face plate. He continued to snore, his lips
vibrating with each exhalation. While he slept they gulped down food and
freshened up. When they were ready to start transferring oxygen to Red Dog,
Nagel was still out Crag hesitated, reluctant to leave him alone. The move
could be fatal—if Nagel were the saboteur. But if it were LarkwelL he might
find himself pitted against two men. The outlook wasn't encouraging. He cast
one more glance at the recumbent figure and made up his mind.

"Hell
be
out for a long time," Larkwell commented, as
if reading his mind.

"Yeah."
Crag replaced Nagel's oxygen cylinder with a fresh one, closed bis face
plate and opened the pressure valve on his suit He waited until the others were
ready and depressurized the cabin. He climbed down the ladder thinking he would
have to return before the oxygen in Nagel's cylinder was exhausted.

Each
man carried three cylinders. When they reached Red Dog, Larkwell scrambled down
into the rill and moved the oxygen cylinders, which Crag and Richter lowered,
into the rocket through the new airlock. They increased the load to four
cylinders each on the following trip, a decision Crag regretted long before
they reached Red Dog. It was
a
rrightmarish,
body-breaking trek that left him staggering with sheer fatigue. He marveled at
Larkwell and Richter. Both were small men physically. Small but tough, he
thought.
Tough and durable.

Nagel
was awake, waiting for them when they returned for another load. He greeted
them with a slightly sheepish look. "Guess I caved in."

"That
you did," Crag affirmed. "Not that I can blame you. I'm just about at
that point myself."

Nagel spoke listlessly.
"Alpine sent a message."

"Oh?" Crag waited
expectantly.

"Colonel Gotch. He said the latest
figures indicated the rocket would strike south of Alphons at 1350 hours."

South of Alphons?
How far south? It would be close, Crag thought
Maybe
too close. Maybe by south of Alphons Gotch meant Arzachel. Well, in that case
his worries would be over. He looked at the master chrono.
Time
for two more trips—if they hurried.

They were
malrfng
their last trip to Bandit

Larkwell
led the way with Crag bringing up the rear. They trudged slowly, tiredly,
haunted by the shortness of time,'yet they had pushed themselves to their
limit. They simply couldn't move faster.

Strange,
Crag thought, there's a rocket in the sky—a warhead, a nuclear bomb hurtling
down from the vastness of space—slanting in on its target
The
target: Adam Crag and crew.
If we survive this . . . what
next?
The question haunted him. How much could they take? Specifically,
how much could
he
take? He shook the mood off. He'd take what
he had to take.

He
thought:
One
more load and well hole up.
The prospect of ending their toil perked up his spirits. During the
time of the bomb they'd sleep—sleep. Sleep and eat and rest and sleep some
more.

Halfway to Bandit he suddenly sensed
something wrong. Richter's form, ahead, was a black shadow. Beyond him, Nagel
was a blob of movement. He flicked his torch on, shooting its beams into the
darkness beyond the oxygen man. Larkwell—there was no sign of Larkwell. He
quickened his pace, weaving the light back and forth on both sides of their
path.