Jeff Sutton by First on the Moon

testing each step. Crag held his breath.
Larkwell gripped the line-with his body swung outward, his feet planted against
the vertical metal, reminding Crag of a human fly. He stopped to rest just
below the level of the space cabin.
    "Thought
a man was supposed to be able to jump thirty feet on the moon," he panted.
    "You can if you peel those duds
off," Crag replied cheerfully. He ran his eye over the break noting the
splintered metal. "Be careful of your suit."
    Larkwell
didn't answer. He was busy again trying to pull his body upward, using the
break in the-hull to obtain finger grips. Only the moon's low gravity allowed
him to perform what looked like an impossible task. He finally reached a point
alongside the hatch and paused, breathing heavily. He rested a moment, then carefully inserted his hand into the break in the hull.
After a moment he withdrew it, and fumbled in his leg pocket withdrawing a
switchblade knife.
    "Got
to cut through the lining," he explained. He worked the knife around
inside the break for several minutes, then closed the blade and reinserted his
hand, feeling around until he located the lockbar.
    He
tugged. It didn't give. He braced his body and exerted all of his strength.
This time it moved. He rested a moment then turned his attention to the
remaining doglocks. In short time he had the hatch open. Carefully, then, he
pulled his body across to the black rectangle and disappeared inside.
    "See anything?'' Crag
shifted his feet resdessly.
    "Dead men." Larkwell's voice sounded relieved over the phones. "Smashed face
plates." There was a long moment of silence. Crag waited impatiently.
    "Just
a second," he finally reported. "Looks like a live one." There
was another interval of silence while Crag stewed. Finally he appeared in the
opening with a hemp ladder.
    "Knew
they had to have some way of getting out of this trap," he announced
triumphandy. He knelt and secured one end to the hatch combing and let the
other end drop to the ground.
    Crag
climbed to meet him. Larkwell extended a hand and helped him through the hatch.
One glance at the interior of the cabin told him that any life left was little
short of a miracle. The man in the pilot's seat lay with his faceplate smashed
against the instrument panel. The top of his fiberglass helmet had shattered
and the top of his head was a bloody mess. A second crewman was sprawled over
the communication console with his face smashed into the radar-scope. His suit
had been ripped from shoulder to waist and one leg was twisted at a crazy
angle. Crag turned his eyes away.
    "Here,"
Larkwell grunted. He was bent over the third and last crewman, who had been
strapped in a bucket seat immediately behind the pilot. Crag moved to his side
and looked down at the recumbent figure. The man's suit seemed to have
withstood the terrible impact. His helmet looked intact, and his faceplate was
clouded.
    Frochaska nodded
affirmatively. "Breathing,'' he said.
    Crag
knelt and checked the unconscious man as best he could before finally getting
back to his feet.
    "It's going to be a
helluva job getting him back."
    Larkwell's
eyes opened with surprise. "You mean we're going to lug that bastard back
to the Aztec?"
    "We are."
    Larkwell
didn't reply. Crag loosened the unconscious man from his harnessing. Larkwell
watched for a while before stooping to help. When the last straps were free
they pulled him close to the edge of the hatch opening. Crag made a mental
inventory of the cabin while Larkwell unscrewed two metal strips from a
bulkhead and laced straps from the safety harnessing between them, making a
crude stretcher.
    Crag
opened a narrow panel built into the rear bulkhead and involuntarily whistled
into his hp mike. It contained two short-barreled automatic rifles and a supply
of ammunition. Larkwell eyed the arms speculatively.
    "Looks like they
expected good hunting," he observed.
    "Yeah,"
Crag grimly agreed. He slammed the metal panel shut and looked distastefully at
the