13

Beneath Peary Crater:

John and Pete made the best speed they could along the dark, uneven tunnel. They'd received brief responses from the rest of the crew, but Commander Riley and his repair team had yet to call in. Moments later, they learned why.

Something..., good instincts or bitter experience..., caused the tall pilot to get his weapon out again, and thumb it off safety. Covered in brown dust and hardened sealant, he couldn't see very well, having had to scrape a window through all the accumulated grime on his faceplate, but it proved to be enough.

They rounded a corner just in time to see one of the moon station crew... the name plate on his survival suit read 'Oldman'... forcing a handful of others into an outer airlock, at gunpoint. As none of his prisoners wore helmets, the man's intent was obvious.

"Hey," John called out, over the suits' emergency frequency (whatever channel he was using would be overridden immediately), "Over here."

The gunman looked about, the point of his weapon wavering slightly. Over the helmet comm, he couldn't tell how far away, or from which direction, the call had originated.

...Until he found himself staring at two American astronauts, one of them armed, and both of them dangerous.

John had taken careful aim. Now he said, calmly,

"Make a move for that trigger, Jack-ass, and you're going to die. That isn't a threat, it's a statement of fact. Your head will explode like a grape, all over the tunnel wall; messy, but satisfying. Drop your weapon."

An instant passed, and then the other man's gun drifted lazily to the ground, where it struck with a faint clatter. Something about the steel in John's voice and the flint in his eyes had added up to 'no quarter' , convincing 'Oldman' that the astronaut was more than willing to run an impromptu lunar ballistics test. Even now, as Riley and his people swarmed and subdued the fellow, he kept his nervous gaze fixed tightly on John.

With the saboteur well in hand, they left the diggings and returned to the main station, where it was safe to un-helm and regroup. Riley gave orders to his crew in rapid, clipped tones. Four of them dragged the gunman off to the brig for later questioning, while the others hurried off to the still-fritzing generator. As they jumped to, the base commander turned to regard McCord. Raking a sinewy hand through his white hair, Riley said,

"Seems we've a number of WorldGov moles in the garden," he said, "some of whom have beenactive for over a year. Suppose one can never tell about other people, no matter what their dossiers claim..." Then, gathering himself, "There's got to be an inquest, of course, what with weapons being drawn, crewmen suborned and injured, and equipment damaged. There'll be no end of official unpleasantness, depend on it. But..." The commander fixed his bright blue gaze on Pete,

"If you should chance to lift off within..., say..., the next two hours, I should hardly notice. Wretched brig-consignment paperwork and accountancy long forms, don't you know."

McCord smiled, and put out a hand. Very carefully, he said nothing that might indicate collusion, but he and Riley shook once. Then, gesturing hurriedly to his pilot, Pete turned and started off.

"Young man," The base commander interrupted, quietly. John paused in mid-pivot. Riley stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, raising a puff of gritty brown dust.

"As you can see, I haven't much in the way of a command. 'Small, out-of-the-way and ill-supplied' sums matters up rather tidily, I should think. But, for whatever it's worth, those resources that I do command, are yours, and your family's, at need."

He had, of course, been thanked before, and was in a tearing hurry, besides; but the dignified officer, doing his best to eke out a bit of science and mining work at the loneliest post imaginable, got a slight smile out of John, anyway.

"Thank you, Sir. The offer means a lot, and I'll pass it on."

They shook on it. Then 5 came on, with alarming news about Cindy Taylor, Dr. Bennett called sharply for medical equipment, and Houston rang, refusing to be put off any longer. Hell, it seemed, was demanding its paycheck.