Jeff Sutton

“ Red Dog was squat, ebony, taper-nosed, distinguishable from the lithic structures dotting this section of Crater Arzachel only by its symmetry. The grotesque rock ledges, needle-sharp pinnacles and twisted formations of the plain clearly were the handiwork of a nature in the throes of birth, when volcanoes burst and the floor of the crater was an uneasy sea of white-hot magmatic rock. Red Dog was just as clearly the creation of some other-world artificer, a creature born of the intelligence and patience of man, structured to cross the planetary voids. ”

“ Colonel Michael Gotch looked at the agent across the narrow expanse of his battered desk, then his eyes fell again to the dockets. Four dockets, four small sheaves of paper, each the capsuled story of a man's life. The names on the dockets were literally burned into his mind: Adam Philip Crag, Martin LeRoy Larkwell, Gordon Wells Nagel, Max Edward Prochaska. Four names, four men, four separate egos who, by the magic of man, had been transported to a bleak haven on another world. ”

“ They trudged across the plain—five black blobs, five shadows plodding through a midnight pit. Crag led the way. The earth overhead gleamed with a yellow-green light. The stars against the purple-black sky were washed to a million glimmering pinpoints. The sky, the crater, the black shadows etched against the blacker night bespoke the alienage of the universe. Arzachel was the forgotten world. More, a world that never was. It was solid matter created of nothingness, floating in nothingness, a minute speck adrift in the terrible emptiness of the cosmos. He shivered. It was an eery feeling. ”

“ There had been a time when he'd been intensely active—when he'd first learned to free his mind from the squat impervium-sheathed cube atop the batholith. Then he had fervently projected remote receptors over the earth exploring its seared continents and eerie-silent cities, exhuming the tragic and bloody history of his Makers. Ah, how short! His first memory of Man—he had been a biped, a frantic protoplasmic creature with a zero mind and furious ego—was that of the day of his birth. ”

“ Crag and Prochaska were alone, now, in the stripped cabin of the Aztec. Nagel and Richter, under Larkwell's command, had departed for Bandit an hour earlier with the last of their supplies. Crag disliked splitting the crew but saw no alternative. He had to gamble. The element of certainty, the ability to predict, the expectations of logic—all these had vanished, swept away by the vagaries of chance. They could do only so much. Beyond that their fate was pawn to the chaotic cross fires of human elements pitted against the architecture of the cosmos. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Psychband diagnosed. "Zale-3 exists."
So, the other had lied! Ixmal contemplated a machine capable of deceit and immediately analyzed the danger. Zale-3 had lied, therefore it had motive—and dishonest motive implied threat. Threat without aggression was meaningless, hence the other had the means. He must work fast!
Ixmal gridded the solar system: every planet, every moon; each shattered remnant that drifted through space, the asteroids and orbital comets, even the sun. ”

“ He had never ceased to marvel at the Aztec's complexity. Everything about the rocket spoke of the future. She was clearly designed to perform in a time not yet come, at a place not yet known. She would fly, watching the stars, continuously measuring the angle between them, computing her way through the abyss of space. Like a woman she would understand the deep currents within her, the introspective sensing of every force which had an effect upon her life. She would measure gravitation, acceleration and angular velocity with infinite precision. ”

“ At the exact ten-thousandths of a second he concentrated five billion thought units. Winds rushed into the spot where the bomb had stood, and for a long moment the forests trembled. (At the base of the batholith several of the strange man-forms chattered excitedly: the concept of a god was born.)
Ixmal gloatingly followed "Star-Blaster's" course. He saw it hurtle past the moon, watched while for a split second it formed one apex of an equilateral triangle with Mars and earth, reveled as it drove through the belt of asteroids. Ha, the alien was doomed. ”

“ Red Dog was a bare half-mile away—a clear level half-mile from the tip of Backbone Ridge. That's how close the sniper had come to living. He mulled the thought with a momentary surge of hope. Red Dog? Why not? If he could shoot his way into the space cabin he'd live ... live. The thought galvanized him to action.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the slope heedless of the danger of ripping his suit. He could make it. He had to make it! He gained the bottom and paused to catch his breath before starting toward the rocket. ”

“ Psychband observed.
"And Man is dust," Ixmal reminded. "Besides, I could destroy the very mountain with thought alone. Who dares give challenge?"
Ixmal discovered that Zale-3 had solved his fissionable problem: he was using psychokinesis to haul ore from Jupiter's methane deeps. A startling thought struck him: Zale-3 wouldn't need a rocket carrier. Of course, he would power his warhead by mental force. Why hadn't he thought of that? The ages wasted when every second might prove vital. ”

“ Yet when he beheld the earth something stirred deep within him. The earth became not a thing of rock and sea water and air, but a living being. He thought of Earth as she. At times she was a ghost treading among the stars, a waif lost in the immensity of the universe. And at times she was a wanton woman, walking in solitary splendor, her head high and proud. The stars were her lovers. Crag walked through the night, head up, wondering if ever again he would answer her call.
He had almost reached Bandit when Nagel's voice broke excitedly into his earphones.
"Something's wrong with Prochaska!" ”

“ Crag finished bluntly.
"You're a spaceman, Commander, not an intelligence agent."
"I don't get the connection."
"An agent trusts no one. And a saboteur is the lone wolf of the agents. Trust me? Ha! He'd just as soon trust your good Colonel Gotch. No, Larkwell wouldn't have trusted me. Never."
Crag was silent. An agent who couldn't trust a soldier of his own country, even when the chips were down? It was a philosophy he couldn't understand. As for Larkwell! He vowed he'd live long enough to see him dead. More, he'd kill him himself. ”

“ Man was on his way to the stars. MAN—the peripatetic quester. For just an instant he felt a pang of jealousy. He'd be pinned to his vacuum while men were conquering the planets. Or would he? But the mood passed. Pickering Field, he realized, would play an important role in the future of space flight. If it weren't the stars, at least it was the jump-off. In time it would be a vast Air Force Base housing rockets instead of stratojets. Pickering Base—the jump-off—the road to the stars. ”

“ Only the gross structures of the plain were visible: the blackness of the rocket reaching upward into the night; fantastic twisted rocks which blotted out segments of the stars; the black blobs of men moving in heavy space suits, dark shadows against the still darker night. The eery almost futile beams of the hand torches seemed worse than useless.
"All set." Larkwell's voice was grim. "Let her come."
Crag fastened his eyes on the nose of Red Dog, a tapered indistinct silhouette.
"Start letting out line at the count of three." There was a pause before Larkwell began the countdown. ”

“ First human foot to touch the moon, he thought. The first human foot ever to step beyond the world. Yeah, the human race was on the way—led by Adam Philip Crag. He felt good.
It occurred to him then that he was not the real victor. That honor belonged to a man 240,000 miles away. Gotch had won the moon. It had been the opaque-eyed Colonel who had directed the conquest. He, Crag, was merely a foot soldier. Just one of the troops. All at once he felt humble.
Prochaska came down next, followed by Nagel. Larkwell was last. ”

“ Crag looked past the Colonel's shoulder. All at once the lights of Alpine Base seemed warm and near, almost personal. Gotch lifted his eyes skyward, symbolic of his dreams. The light of distant stars reflected off his brow.
"We don't know whether the Aztec can make it," he said humbly. "We don't know whether our space-lift system will work, whether the drones can be monitored down to such a precise point on the moon, or the dangers of meteorite bombardment. We don't know whether our safeguards for human life are adequate. We don't know whether the opposition can stop us.... ”

“ He waited until the first tremors had passed, then spoke, trying to keep his voice calm.
"You're disturbed, Larkwell. You don't know what you're doing."
"No? You think not?"
Crag bit his lip vexedly. He spoke again:
"So, you're our saboteur?"
"Call me that, if you wish."
"And a damned traitor!"
"Not a traitor, Mister Crag. To the contrary, I have been very faithful to my country."
"You're a traitor," Crag stated coldly.
"Come, be reasonable. A traitor is one who betrays his country. You work for your side ... I work for mine. It's as simple as that." ”

“ He ate quickly, with the air of a man preoccupied with weighty problems. Nagel was clearly bushed. Larkwell's fast pace had been too much for him. He wore a cross, irritable expression and avoided all conversation. Richter sat alone, seemingly unconcerned that he was a virtual prisoner, confined to one small corner of the cabin barely large enough to provide sleeping space. Crag had no feelings where he was concerned, neither resentment nor sympathy. The German was just a happenstance, a castaway in the war for Arzachel. Or, more probable, he thought, the war for the moon. ”

“ Gotch explained. "The deception was necessary—a part of the cat and mouse game we've been playing the last couple of decades. We couldn't take a single chance." Crag remained silent. The Colonel turned toward the lights of the Base. He had become quiet, reflective. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost like a man talking to himself.
"Out there are hundreds of men who have given a large part of their lives to the dream of space flight. Now we are at the eve of making that dream live. If we gain the moon, we gain the planets. That's the destiny of Man. The Aztec is the first step." ”

“ Larkwell gave a weak experimental jump and promptly 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 fervently 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. ”

“ The mass ratio necessary to inject the Aztec into its moon trajectory had precluded fuel beyond the absolute minimum needed. The rocket would approach the moon in an elliptical path, correct its heading to a north-south line relative to the planet and decelerate in a tight spiral. At a precise point in space he would have to start using the braking rockets, slow the ship until they occupied an exact point in the infinite space-time continuum, then let down into cliff-brimmed Arzachel, a bleak, airless, utterly alien wasteland with but one virtue: Uranium. ”

“ The communicator was silent. Crag watched the master chrono.
At 0812 Prochaska was still buried in the panel. Crag's dismay grew—dismay and a sense of guilt over the sabotage. Gotch had warned him against the possibility innumerable times. Now it had happened. The loss of Drone Able had been a bad blow; the loss of Baker could be fatal, not only to the success of their mission but to their survival.
Survival meant an airlock and the ability to live on their scant supplies until Arzachel was equipped to handle incoming rockets on a better-than-chance basis. ”

“ Crag raised the rifle and tried to line the sights. He had difficulty holding the weapon steady. He started to pull the trigger when the man fell again. Crag hesitated. The sniper floundered in the ash, managed to pull himself half-erect. He weaved with a few faltering steps and plunged forward on his face.
Crag watched for a moment. There was no movement. The black blob of the suit lay with the stillness of the rocks in the brazen heat of the crater. So that's the way a man dies when his oxygen runs out, he thought. ”

“ Man could look forward now, to a bright shiny path leading to the stars. This was the final step. The Big Step. The step that would tie together two worlds. In a few short days the Aztec would reach her lonely destination, Arzachel, a bleak spot in the universe. Adam Crag, the Man in the Moon. He hoped. He turned toward the others, trying to wipe the smug look from his face.
The oddity of weightlessness was totally unlike anything he had expected despite the fact its symptoms had been carefully explained during the indoctrination program. ”