Free Jeff Sutton by First on the Moon Page B

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