Jeff Sutton (10 page)

"Looks like we're piloting them in.
Jeepers, you'd think they could do their own
navigation."

"Shows the confidence
they have in us," Crag retorted.

They
flashed high above Ptolemaeus, a crater ninety miles in diameter rimmed by
walls three thousand feet high. The crater fled by below them. South lay
Alphohs; and farther south, Arzachel, with walls ten thousand feet high rimming
its vast depressed interior.

Prochaska observed
quiedy:
 
"Nice rugged spot.
Its going to take some doing."
"Amen."

Tm beginning to get that what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling."

"I've had it right
along," Crag confided.

They
caught only a fleeting look at Arzachel before it rushed into the background.
Crag touched the braking rockets from time to time, gentiy, precisely, keeping
his eyes moving between the radar altimeter and speed indicator while the Chief
fed him the course data.

The back side of the moon was spinning into view—the
side of the moon never before seen by human eyes.
Pro-
chaska whisded softly.
A huge mountain range interlaced
with valleys and chasms pushed some thirty thousand feet
into the lunar sides. Long streaks of ochre and brown marked
its sides, the first color they had seen on the moon. Flat
highland plains crested between the peaks were dotted with
strange monolithic structures almost geometrical in their
distribution.
                               
"

Prochaska
was shooting the scene with the automatic camera. Crag twisted around several
times to nod reassuringly to Nagel and Larkwell but each time they were occupied
with the side ports, oblivious of his gesture. To his surprise Nagel's face was
rapt, almost dreamy, completely absorbed by the stark lands below. Larkwell,
too, was quiet with wonder.

The
jagged mountains fell away to a great sea, larger even than Mare Imbrium, and
like Mare Imbrium, devoid of life. A huge crater rose from its center, towering
over twenty thousand feet. Beyond lay more mountains. The land between was a
wild tangle of rock, a place of unutterable desolation. Crag was fascinated
and depressed at the same time. The Aztec was closing around the moon in a
tight spiral.

The alien landscape drew visibly nearer. He
switched his attention between the braking rockets and instruments, trying to
manage a quick glance at the scope. Prochaska caught his look.

"Bandit's up on
us," he confirmed.

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. He saw it as the
supreme challenge, the magnitude of which took his breath. He was Cortez
scanning the land of the Aztecs. More, for this stark lonely terrain had never
felt the stir of life. No benevolent Maker had created this chaos. It was an infemo
without fire—a hell of a kind never known on earth. It was the handiwork of a
nature on a rampage—a maddened nature whose molding clay had been molten lava.

He
stirred the controls, moved them further, holding hard. The braking rockets
shook the ship, coming through the bulkheads as a faint roar
..
The ground came up fast. Still the landscape fled by—fled past for seeming
days.

Prochaska
announced wonderingly. "We've cleared the back side. You're on the landing
run, Skipper."

Crag
nodded grimly, thinking it was going to be rough. Each second, each split
second had to be considered. There was no margin for error. No second chance.
He checked and re-checked his instruments, juggling speed against altitude.

Ninety-mile wide Ftolemaeus was coming around
again— fast. He caught a glimpse through the floor port. It was a huge saucer,
level at the bottom, rimmed by low cliffs which looked as though they had been
carved from obsidian. The floor was split by irregular chasms, punctuated by
sharp high pinnacles. It receded and Alphons rushed to meet them. The Aztec was
dropping fast.
Too fast?
Crag looked worriedly at the
radar altimeter and hit the braking rockets harder. Alphons passed more slowly.
They fled south, a slim needle in the lunar skies.

"Arzachel
  
. ."
He
breathed the name almost reverently.

Prochaska
glanced out the side port before hurriedly consulting the instruments. Thirty
thousand feet! He glanced worriedly at Crag. The ground passed below them at a
fantastic speed. They seemed to be dropping faster. The stark face of the
planet hurtled to meet them.

"Fifteen
thousand feet," Prochaska half-whispered. Crag nodded. "Twelve
thousand . . . ten . . . eight
..."
The Chief continued to chant the altitude readings in a strained voice.
Up until then the face of the moon had seemed to rush toward the Aztec. All at
once it changed. Now it was the Aztec that rushed across the hostile
land—rushing and dropping. "Three thousand . . . two thousand
. ."
They flashed high above a great cliff which fell
away for some ten thousand feet. At its base began the plain of Arzachel.

Out
of the comer of his eye Crag saw that Bandit was leading them.
But higher . . . much higher.
Now it was needling into the
purple-black—straight up. He gave a quick, automatic instrument check. The
braking rockets were blasting hard. He switched one hand to the steering
rockets.

Zero
minute was coming up. Bandit was ahead, but higher. It could, he thought^ be a
photo finish. Suddenly he remembered his face plate and snapped it shut,
opening the oxygen valve. The suit grew rigid on his body and hampered his
arms. He cursed softly and looked sideways at Prochaska. He was having the same
difficulty. Crag managed a quick over-the-shoulder glance at Larkwell and
Nagel. Everything seemed okay.

He
took a deep breath and applied full deceleration with the braking jets and
simultaneously began manipulating the steering rockets. The ship vibrated from
stem to stern. The forward port moved upward; the face of the moon swished past
and disappeared. Bandit was lost to sight. The ship trembled, shuddered and
gave a violent wrench. Crag was thrown forward.

The
Aztec began letting down, tail first. It was a sickening moment
The
braking rockets astern, heavy with smoke, thundered
through the hull. The smoke blanketed out the ports. Tie cabin vibrated. He
straightened the nose with the steering rockets, letting the ship fall in a
vertical attitude, tail first. He snapped a glance at the radar altimeter and
punched a button.

A
servo mechanism somewhere in the ship started a small motor. A tubular spidery
metal framework was projected out from the tail, extending some twenty feet
before it locked into position. It
was a
failing
device intended to absorb the energy generated by the landing impact.

Prochaska
looked worriedly out the side port. Crag followed his eyes. Small details on
the plain of Arzachel loomed large—pits, cracks, low ridges of rock. Suddenly
the plain was an appalling reality. Rocky fingers reached to grip them. He
twisted his head until he caught sight of Bandit. It was moving down, tail
first, but it was still high in the sky. Too high, he thought He took a fast
look at the radar altimeter and punched the full battery of braking rockets
again. The force on his body seemed unbearable. Blood was forced into his head,
blurring his vision. His ears buzzed and his spine seemed to be supporting some
gigantic weight. The pressure eased and the ground began moving up more slowly.
The rockets were blasting steadily.

For a split-second the ship seemed to hang in
mid-air followed by a violent shock. The cabin teetered,
then
smashed onto the plain, swaying as the framework projecting from the tail
crumpled. The shock drove them hard into then-seats. They sat for a moment
before full realization dawned. They were down—alivel

Crag
and Prochaska simultaneously began shucking their safety belts. Crag was first.
He sprang to the side port just in time to see the last seconds of Bandits
landing. It came down fast, a perpendicular needle stabbing toward the lunar
surface. Flame spewed from its braking rockets; white smoke enveloped its nose.

Fast
...
too fast, he thought. Suddenly the flame
licked out.
Fuel error.
The thought flashed through
his mind. The fuel Bandit had wasted in space maneuvering to destroy the drone
had left it short. The rocket seemed to hang in the sky for a scant second
before it plummeted straight down, smashing into the stark lunar landscape. The
Chief had reached his side just in time to witness the crash.

"That's all for
them," he said "Can't say I'm sorry."

"Serves
'em damn well right," growled Crag. He became conscious of Nagel and
Larkwell crowding to get a look and obligingly moved to one side without taking
his eyes from the scene. He tried to
judge
Bandit's
distance.

"Little over two
miles," he estimated aloud.

"You
can't tell in this vacuum," Prochaska advised. "Your eyes play you
tricks. Waitll I try the scope." A moment later he turned admiringly from
the instrument.

"Closer
to three miles.
Pretty good for a green hand."

Crag
laughed, a quiet laugh of self-satisfaction, and said, 1 could use a little
elbow room. Any volunteersP"

"Liberty
call," Prochaska sang out "All ashore who's going ashore. The gals
are waiting."

"I'm
a little tired of this sardine can, myself," Larkwell put in. "Let's
get on our Sunday duds and blow. I'd like to do the town." There was a
murmur of assent Nagel, who was monitoring the oxygen pressure gauge, spoke
affirmatively. "No leaks."

"Good,"
Crag said with relief. He took a moment off to feel exultant but the mood
quickly vanished. There was work ahead—sheer drudgery.

"Check suit
pressure," he ordered.

They
waited a moment longer while they tested pressure, the interphones, and
adjusted to the lack of body weight before Crag moved toward the hatch.
Prochaska prompted them to actuate their temperature controls:

"It's going to be hot
out there."

Crag
nodded, checked his temperature dial and started to open the hatch. The
lock-lever resisted his efforts for a moment. He tested the dogs securing the
door. Several of them appeared jammed. Panic touched his mind. He braced his
body, moving against one of the lock levers with all his strength. It gave,
then another. He loosened the last lock braced against the blast of escaping
air. The hatch exploded open.

He
stood for a moment looking at the ground, some twenty feet below. The metal
framework now crumpled below the tail had done its work. It had struck,
failing, and in doing so had absorbed a large amount of impact energy which
otherwise would have been absorbed by the body of the rocket with possible
damage to the space cabin.

The
Aztec's tail fins were buried in what appeared to be a powdery ash. The rocket
was canted slightly but, he thought, not dangerously so. Larkwell broke out the
rope ladder provided for descent and was looking busy. Now it was his turn to
shine. He hooked the ladder over two pegs and let the other end fall to the
ground. He tested it then straightened up and turned to Crag.

"You may depart,
Sire."

Crag
grinned and started down the ladder. It was clumsy work. The bulk and rigidity
of his suit made his movements uncertain, difficult. He descended slowly,
testing each step. He hesitated at the last rung, thinking:
This is it!
He let his foot dangle above the surface for
a moment before plunging it down into the soft ash
mande
,
then walked a few feet, ankle deep in a fine gray powder. 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.