Jeff Sutton (6 page)

Couldn't control? Or could they?
He debated the question, then quickly briefed
Frochaska and cut him in on the com circuit

"We
can use Drone Able as an intercept," he told Gotch. "Nol" The
word came explosively.

Crag
snapped, "Drone Able won't be a damn bit of.
good
without the Aztec."

"No,
this is ground control, Commander." Gotch abrupdy cut off. Crag cursed.

\ "Calling Step One . . . Calling Step One.
S-two calling Step One.
Are you receiving?
Over."
The voice came faint over
the communicator, rising and falling.

"Step
One," Crag said, adjusting his lip mike. He acknowledged the code call
while his mind registered the fact it wasn't Alpine Base. There was a burst of
static. He waited
a
moment, puzzled.

"S-two calling . . ."

Pickering!
He had been slow in recognizing the satelloid's code call. The voice faded—was
lost. His thought raced. Pickering was up there in the satelloid moving higher,
faster than the Aztec, hurtling along the rim of space in a great circle around
the earth. The stubby-winged rocket ship was
a
minute particle in infinity, yet it represented a part in the great
adventure. It was the hand of Michael Gotch reaching toward them. For the
instant, the knowledge gave him
a
ray
of hope—hope as quickly dashed. The S-two was just a high-speed observation and
relay platform; a manned vehicle traveling the communication orbit established
by the Army's earlier Explorer
¹
missiles. He turned back to
Prochaska and sketched in his plan of using Drone Able as an intercept.

"Could be."
The Chief bit his lip reflectively. "We could control her through
her steering rockets, but we'd have to be plenty sharp. We'd only get one
crack."

"Chances
are the intercept is working on a proximity fuse," Crag reasoned.
"All we'd have to do is work the drone into its flight path. We could use
our own steering rockets to give us a bigger margin of safety."

"What would the loss of Able mean?"

Crag shrugged. "I'm more concerned with
what the loss of the Aztec would mean."

"Might work."
The Chief looked sharply at him. "What does Alpine say?"

"They
say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was much nearer. So was
the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for an eye-witness report, he thought
sourly.
Probably got an automatic camera so Gotch can watch
the show.
He looked quizzically at Prochaska. The Chief wore a frozen
mask. He got back on the communicator and repeated his request. When he
finished, there was a dead silence in the void.

The
Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully at Prochaska. Last
time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited to leave the Air Force. But
Gotch had taken him despite that. He glanced over his shoulder trying to
formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back in his seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog,
he thought. He doesn't know what he's in for. He twisted his head further.
Nagel watched him with a narrow look. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind
and turned back to the analog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across
the grid. The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid was
dropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too.
Much nearer.
Prochaska watched the scene on his radarscope.

"She's coming
fast," he murmured. Hi* face had paled.

"Too
fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine. Gotch
came on immediately.

Crag
said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept. It's the
only chance."

"Commander,
I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy, biting.

"Ground has no control over this
situation," Crag snapped angrily.

"I said ground
control, Commander. That's final"

"I'm using Drone
Able."

"Commander
Crag, youll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Cotch raged.
"Don't move that Drone."

For
a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just now he'd like to be
guaranteed the chance to clear the heads at Alpine Base. It sounded good—real
good. There was another burst of static. Pickering's voice came in—louder,
clearer, a snap through the ether.

"Don't sacrifice the drone,
Commander!"

"Do you know a better way?"

Pickering's voice dropped to a laconic drawl.

"Reckon so."

Crag
glanced at the analog and gave a visible start. The satelloid was lower, moving
in faster along a course which would take it obliquely through the space path
being traversed by the Aztec. If there was such a thing as a wake in space,
that's where the satelloid would chop through, cutting down toward the
intercept.
He's using his power, he thought, the scant
amount of fuel he would need for landing. But if he used it up . . .

He slashed the thought off
and swung to the communicator.

"Step One to S-two . .
. Step One to S-two . . ."

"S-two."
Pickering came in immediately.

Crag barked, "You
can't—"

"That's
my job," Pickering cut in. "You gotta get that bucket to the
moon." Crag looked thoughtfully at the communicator.

"Okay," he said
finally.
"Thanks, fellow."

"Don't
mention it. The Air Force is always ready to serve," Pickering said.
"Adios." He cut off.

Crag
stared at the analog, biting his lip, feeling the emotion surge inside him. It
grew to a tumult.

"Skipper!"
Prochaska's voice was startled. "For God's sake . . . look!"

Crag swung his eyes to the scope. The blip
representing

Pickering
had cut their flight path, slicing obliquely through their wake. At its
tremendous speed only the almost total absence of air molecules kept the
satelloid from turning into a blazing torch.
Down .
.
down .
.
plunging
to meet the death
roaring up from the Pacific. They followed it silently. A brief flare showed on
the scope. They looked at the screen for a long moment.

"He was a brave
man," Prochaska said simply.

"A pile of guts."
Crag got on the communicator. Gotch listened. When he had finished,
Gotch said:

"After
this, Commander, follow ground orders. You damned near fouled up the works. I
don't want to see that happen again."

"Yes, Sir, but I
couldn't have expected that move."

"What
do you think Pickering was up there for?" Gotch asked softly. "He
knew what he was doing. That was his job. Just like the couple that got bumped
at the Blue Door. It's tough, Commander, but some people have to die. A lot
have, already, and there'll be a lot more."

He
added brusquely, "You'll get your chance." The communicator was
silent for a moment. "Well, carry on."

"Aye, aye, Sir,"
Crag said. He glanced over his shoulder.

Larkwell
was leaning over in his seat, twisting his body to see out the side port. His
face was filled with the wonder of space. Nagel didn't stir. His eyes were big
saucers in his white, thin face. Crag half expected to see his Bps quiver, and
wondered briefly at the courage it must have taken for him to volunteer. He
didn't seem at all like the hero type. Still, look at Napoleon. You could never
tell what a man had until the chips were down. Well, the chips
were
down. Nagel better have it. He turned reflectively back to the forward
port thinking that the next two days would be humdrum. Nothing would ever seem
tough again. Not after what they had just been through.

Prochaska fell into the routine of calling
out altitude and speed. Crag listened with one part of his mind occupied with
Pickering's sacrifice. Would he have had the courage to drive the satelloid
into the warhead? Did it take more guts to do that than to double for a man
slated to be murdered? He mulled the questions. Plainly, Step One was jammed
with heroes.

"Altitude, 1,000 miles, speed, 22,300."
Prochaska whispered the words, awe in his
voice. They looked at each other wordlessly.

"We've
made it," Crag exulted. "We're on that old moon trajectory." The
Chiefs face reflected his wonder. Crag studied his instruments. Speed slighdy
over 22,300 miles per hour. The radar altimeter showed the Aztec slightly more
than one thousand miles above the earth's surface. He hesitated,
then
cut off the third stage engine. The fuel gauge
indicated a bare few gallons left. This small amount, he knew, represented
error in the precise computations of escape. Well, the extra weight was
negligible. At the same time, they couldn't afford- added acceleration. He
became aware that the last vestige of weight had vanished. He moved his hand.
No effort No effort at all. Space, he thought, the first successful manned
space ship.

Elation
swept him. He, Adam Crag, was in space. Not just the top of the atmosphere but
absolute space—the big vacuum that surrounded the world. This had been the aim
the dream . . . the goal. And so quick!

He
flicked his mind back. It seemed almost no time at all since the Germans had
electrified the world with the V-2, a primitive rocket that scarcely reached
seventy miles above the earth, creeping at a mere 3,000 miles per hour.

The
Americans had strapped a second stage to the German prototype, creating the
two-stage V-2-Wac Corporal and sending it 250 miles into the tall blue at
speeds better than 5,000 miles per hour. It had been a battle even then, he
thought, remembering the dark day the Russians beat the

West
with Sputnik I . . . seemingly demolished it with Sputnik II—until the U. S.
Army came through with Explorer I. That had been the real beginning. IRBM's and
ICBM's had been born.
Missiles and counter-missiles.
Dogs, monkeys and mice had ridden the fringes of space. But never man.

A
deep sense of satisfaction flooded him. The Aztec had been the first.
The Aztec under Commander Adam Crag.
The full sense of the
accomplishment was just beginning to strike him. We've beaten the enemy, he
thought. We've won. It had been a grim battle waged on a technological front; a
battle between nations in which, ironically, each victory by either side took
mankind a step nearer emancipation from the world. 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. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, yet he wasn't. He felt no sense of
pressure against the seat, or against anything else, for that matter. It was,
he thought, like sitting on air, as light as a mote of dust drifting in a
breeze. Sure,-he'd experienced weightlessness before, when pushing a research
stratojet through a high-speed trajectory to counter the pull of gravity, for
example. But those occasions had lasted only brief moments. He moved his hand
experimentally upward—a move that ended like the strike of a snake. Yeah, it
was going to take some doing to leam control of his movements. He looked at
Prochaska. The Chief was feeding data to Alpine Base. He finished and grinned
broadly at Crag. His eyes were elated.

"Sort of startling,
isn't it?"

"Amen,"
Crag agreed. "I'm almost afraid to loosen my harnessing."

"Alpine says we're right on the
button—schedule, course and speed. There's a gal operator on now."

"That's
good. That means we're back to routine." Crag loosened his harnesses and
twisted around in his seat. Lark-well was moving his hands experimentally. He
saw Crag and grinned foolishly. Nagel looked ill. His face was pinched,
bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed. He caught Crag's look and nodded, without
expression.