Free Jeff Sutton by First on the Moon Page A

large, a
long thick rocket with an oddly blunted nose. A monster that was as deadly as
it looked.
    "Big," he surmised. "Much bigger man this chunk of
hardware."                                                          -
    "Yeah,
a regular battleship," Prochaska assented. He grinned crookedly. "In more ways than one."
    Crag
sensed movement at his shoulder and turned his head. Nagel was studying the
radarscope over his shoulder. Surprise lit his narrow face.
    "The drone?"
    "Destroyed," Crag said bruskly.
"Bandit had a warhead."
    Nagel looked startled, then retreated to his seat
without a word. Crag returned his attention to the enemy
rocket. "What do you think?" he asked Prochaska. His answer was
solemn. "It spells trouble."
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 8
     
    At a precise point in space spelled out by the Alpine computers Crag applied the first braking rockets. He realized that the act had been an immediate tip-off to the occupants of
the other rocket. No matter, he thought. Sooner or later
they had to discover it was the drone they had destroyed Slowly ,
almost imperceptibly, their headlong flight was slowed. He nursed the rockets
with care. There was no fuel to spare, no energy to waste, no room for error.
Everything had been worked out long beforehand;
he was merely the agent of ex ecution.
    The
sensation of weight gradually increased. He ordered Larkwell
and Nagel into their seats in strapdown position. He
and Prochaska shortly, followed, but he left his shoulder
harnessing loose to give his arms the vital freedom he needed for the intricate maneuvers ahead.
    The
moon rushed toward them at an appalling rate. Its
surface was a harsh grille work of black and white, a nightmarish scape of pocks and twisted mountains of rock rimmin g the flat lunar plains. It
was, he thought, the geometry of a maniac. There was no softness, no blend of fight and shadow, only terrible
cleavages between black and white. Yet there was a beauty that gripped his imagination;
    the raw, stark beauty of a nature undefiled by
life. No eye had ever seen the canopy of the heavens from the bleak surface
below; no flower had ever wafted in a lunar breeze.
    Prochaska
nudged his arm and indicated the scope. Bandit was almost abreast them. Crag
nodded understandingly.
    "No more warheads."
    "Guess
we're just loaded with luck," Prochaska agreed wryly.
    They
watched . . . waited . . mindless of time. Crag felt the tension building inside him. Occasionally he glanced at
the chronometer, itching for action. The wait seemed interminable. Minutes or hours? He, lost track of time.
    All
at once his hands and mind were busy with the braking rockets, dials, meters.
First the moon had been a pallid giant in the sky; next it filled the horizon.
The effect was startling. The limb of the moon, seen as a shallow curved
horizon, no longer was smooth. It appeared as a rugged saw-toothed arc, somehow
reminding him of the Devil's Golf Course in California's Death Valley. It was
weird and wonderful, and slightiy terrifying.
    Prochaska
manned the automatic camera to record the orbital and landing phases. He spotted
the Crater of Ptolemaeus first, near the center-line of the disc. Crag made a
minute correction with the steering rockets. The enemy rocket followed suit
Prochaska gave a short harsh laugh without humor.
    "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