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First on the Moon

<h2>CHAPTER 5</h2> "Alpine wants a private confab," Prochaska said. His voice was ominous. "Probably another stinker." "Again?" Crag plugged in his ear insert microphone thinking he wasn't going to like what he'd hear. Just when things had started looking smooth too. He cut Prochaska out of the system and acknowledged. "Crag?" Gotch's voice was brittle, hard. He looked sideways at Prochaska, who was studiously examining one of the instruments, trying to give him the privacy demanded. He shifted his head. Larkwell was standing at the side port with his back toward him. Nagel lay back in his seat, eyes closed. Crag answered softly. "Shoot." "More bad news," Gotch reported somberly. "Burning Sands picked a package out of Drone Able just before launch time. It's just been identified." "Check," he replied, trying to assimilate what Gotch was telling him. Gotch stated flatly. "It was a time bomb. Here's a description. Bomb was packaged in a flat black plastic case about one by four inches. Probably not big enough to wreck the drone but big enough to destroy the controls. It was found tucked in the wiring of the main panel. Got that?" "Check." "The bomb squad hasn't come through with full details yet. If you find a mate, don't try to disarm it. Dump it, pronto!" "Can't. It'll stay with us." "It's size indicates it wouldn't be fatal if it exploded outside the hull," Gotch rasped. "It was designed to wreck controls. If you find one, dump it. That's an order." The earphones were silent. Crag was swiveling toward Prochaska when they came to life again. "One other thing." Gotch was silent for a moment. Crag pictured him carefully framing his words. "It means that the situation is worse than we thought," he said finally. "They haven't left anything to chance. If you have a bomb, it was carried there after the final security check. Do you follow me?" "Yeah," Crag answered thoughtfully. He sat for a moment, debating what to do. Prochaska didn't ask any questions. Gotch was telling him that the Aztec might be mined. Wait, what else had he said? The bomb was carried there after the security check. That spelled traitor. The Aztec had been shaken down too often and too thoroughly for Intelligence to have muffed. It would have to have been planted at the last moment. If there was a bomb, he'd better keep quiet until Gotch's suspicions were proven false—or verified. He turned toward Prochaska, keeping his voice low. "Search the console panels—every inch of them." He looked around. Nagel and Larkwell were back in their seats. Nagel seemed asleep, but Larkwell's face was speculative. Crag's eyes swept the cabin. Spare oxygen tanks, packaged pressure suits, water vents, chemical commode, the algae chamber and spare chemicals to absorb carbon dioxide in case the algae system failed—these and more items filled every wall, cupboard, occupied every cubic inch of space beyond the bare room needed for human movement. Where was the most sensitive spot? The controls. He sighed and turned back to the panels. Prochaska was methodically running his hands through the complex of wiring under the instrument panels. His face was a question, the face of a man who didn't know what he was looking for. He decided not to tell him ... yet. His earphones gave a burst of static followed by the Colonel's hurried voice. "Burning Sands reports packaged timed for 0815," he snapped. "That's eight minutes away. Get on the ball. If you've got one there, it's probably a twin." "Okay," Crag acknowledged. "Adios, we've got work to do." He swung toward Nagel. "Break out the pressure suits," he barked. "Lend him a hand, Larkwell." Nagel's eyes opened. "Pressure suits?" "Check. We may need them in a couple of minutes." "But—" "Get to it," Crag rasped. "It may be a matter of life or death." He turned. Prochaska was still examining the wiring. No time to search the rest of the cabin, he thought. It might be anywhere. It would have to be the panels or nothing. Besides, that was the most logical place. He went to the Chief's assistance, searching the panels on his side of the board, pushing his fingers gently between the maze of wiring. Nothing below the analog, the engine instruments, the radar altimeter. He glanced at the chronometer and began to sweat. The hands on the dial seemed to be racing. Prochaska finished his side of the console and looked sideways at him. Better tell him, Crag thought. He said calmly, "Time bomb. Burning Sands says, if we have one, it may blow in—" he glanced hurriedly at the chronometer—"five minutes." Prochaska looked hurriedly at the array of gear lining the bulkheads. "Probably in the controls, if we have one." Crag finished the panels on his side without any luck. Prochaska hastily started re-examining the wiring. Crag followed after him. A moment later his fingers found it, a smooth flat case deeply imbedded between the wiring. Prochaska had gone over that panel a moment before! The thought struck him even as he moved it out, handling it gingerly. Prochaska showed his surprise. Crag glanced at Nagel and Larkwell. They had the suits free. He laid the bomb on the console. Larkwell saw it. His face showed understanding. He heaved one of the suits to Prochaska and a second one to Crag. They hurriedly donned them. Space limitations made it an awkward task. Crag kept his eyes on the chronometer. The hand seemed to whiz across the dial. He began to sweat, conscious that he was breathing heavily. "Short exposure," he rapped out. "Minimum pressure." He slipped on his helmet, secured it to the neck ring and snapped on the face plate. He turned the oxygen valve and felt the pressure build up within the suit and helmet. The chronometer showed two minutes to go. He snapped a glance around. Nagel peered at him through his thick face plate with a worried expression. Larkwell's lips were compressed against his teeth. His jaws worked spasmodically. Both were waiting, tense, watching him. Prochaska was the last to finish. Crag waited impatiently for him to switch on his oxygen valve before picking up the bomb. He motioned the others to stand back and began opening the dogs which secured the escape hatch. He hesitated on the last one. The escaping air could whisk him into space in a flash. The same thing had happened to crewmen riding in bubbles that broke at high altitude. Whoosh! He'd be gone! Conceivably, it could suck the cabin clean. Fortunately their gear had been secured as protection against the high g forces of escape. Too late to lash himself with the seat harnessing. Time was running out. Panic touched his mind. Calm down, Crag, he told himself. Play it cool, boy. Prochaska saw his dilemma at the same instant. He squatted on the deck and thrust his legs straight out from the hips, straddling one of the seat supports. Larkwell and Nagel hurriedly followed suit. Crag cast a backward glance at the chronometer—a minute and ten seconds to go! He threw himself to one side of the hatch, squatted and hooked an arm into a panel console, hoping it was strong enough. He laid the bomb on the deck next to the hatch and reached up with his free hand, held his breath, hesitated, and jarred the last dog loose. The hatch exploded open. A giant claw seemed to grab his body, pulling him toward the opening. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving him weak, breathless. The bomb had been whisked into space. He got to his feet and grasped the hatch combing, looking out. It was a giddy, vertiginous moment. Before him yawned a great purple-black maw, a blacker purple than that seen through the view ports. It was studded with unbelievably brilliant stars agleam with the hard luster of diamonds—white diamonds and blue sapphires. Something bright blinked in space. He hesitated. The cold was already coming through his suit. He remembered he hadn't turned on either the heating element or interphone system. He drew the hatch shut and dogged it down, then switched both on. The others saw his movements and followed suit. "See anything?" Prochaska was the first to ask. His voice sounded tinny and far away. Crag adjusted his amplifier and said grimly: "It blew." "How ... how did it get here?" He identified the voice as Nagel's. He snapped brusquely, "That's what I'm going to find out." Larkwell was silent. Nagel began fiddling with the oxygen valves. They waited, quietly, each absorbed in his thoughts until Nagel indicated it was safe to remove their suits. Crag's thoughts raced while he shucked the heavy garments. It's past, he thought, but the saboteur's still here. Who? He flicked his eyes over the men. Who? That's what he had to find out—soon! When the suit was off, he hurriedly put through a call to Gotch, reporting what had happened. The Colonel listened without comment. When Crag finished, he was silent for a moment. Finally he replied: "Here's where we stand. We will immediately comb the record of every intelligence agent involved in the last shakedown. We'll also recomb the records of the Aztec crew, including yours. I've got to tell you this because it's serious. If there's a saboteur aboard—and I think there is—then the whole operation's in jeopardy. It'll be up to you to keep your eyes open and analyze your men. We've tried to be careful. We've checked everyone involved back to birth. But there's always the sleeper. It's happened before." "Check," Crag said. "I only hope you don't catch up with all my early peccadillos." "This is no time to be funny. Now, some more news for you. Washington reports that the enemy launched another missile this morning." "Another one?" Crag sighed softly. This time there would be no satelloid, no Pickering to give his life. The Colonel continued grimly. "Radar indicates this is a different kind of rocket. Its rate of climb ... its trajectory ... indicates it's manned. Now it's a race." Crag thought a moment. "Any sign of a drone with it?" "No, that's the surprising part, if this is a full-scale attempt at establishing a moon base. And we believe it is." Crag asked sharply. "It couldn't be their atom-powered job?" The possibility filled him with alarm. "Positively not. We've got our finger squarely on that one and it's a good year from launch-date. No, this is a conventional rocket ... perhaps more advanced than we had believed...." His voice dropped off. "We'll keep you posted," he added after a minute. "Roger." Crag sighed. He removed the earphone reflectively. He wouldn't tell the others yet. Now that they were in space maybe ... just maybe ... he could find time to catch his breath. Damn, they hadn't anticipated all this during indoctrination. The intercept-missile ... time bomb ... possible traitor in the crew. What more could go wrong? For just a second he felt an intense hostility toward Gotch. An Air Force full of pilots and he had to pick him—and he wasn't even in the Air Force at the time. Lord, he should have contented himself with jockeying a jet airliner on some nice quiet hop. Like between L. A. and Pearl ... with a girl at each end of the run. He thought wistfully about the prospect while he made a routine check of the instruments. Cabin pressure normal ... temperature 78 degrees F. ... nothing alarming in the radiation and meteor impact readings. Carbon dioxide content normal. Things might get routine after all, he thought moodily. Except for one thing. The new rocket flashing skyward from east of the Caspian. One thing he was sure of. It spelled trouble. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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