unconscious man. "I've a damned good notion to leave him here."
"That's what I was thinkin g"
Crag
debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're elected as
angels of mercy. WelL let's go."
"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss
spat. He
looped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled him to the brink of the opening.
"Ought
to shove him out and let him bounce a while," he growled.
Crag
didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metal stanchion and
signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through the hatch. Crag let the line
out slowly until it became slack. Larkwell straightened up and leaned against
the hatch combing with a foolish look on his face. Crag took one look at his
gaping expression.
"Oxygen,"
he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extra cylinder from his belt
and hooked it into Larkwell's suit, turning the
valve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatch combing
before Crag managed to pull him to safety.
Within
moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quickly checked his own
oxygen. It was low. Too low. The time they had lost
taking the wrong route . . the time taken to open Bandit's hatch . had upset NageFs
oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember in the future. He
switched cylinders, then made a rapid calculation. It
was evident they couldn't carry- the injured man back with the amount of oxygen
remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem to Nagel.
"Try
one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit"
"No
go. I've already looked them over." He kicked the problem around in bis
mind.
"Here's
the routine," he told him. "You start out to meet us with a couple of
extra cylinders. Well take along a couple of Bandit's spares to last this
critter until you can modify the valves on his suit to fit our equipment.
Frochaska can guide the works. Okay?"
"Roger,"
Prochaska cut in. Nagel gave an affirmative grunt.
Crag
lowered two of Bandit's cylinders and the stretcher to the floor of the crater, then took a last look around the cabin. Gotch, he
knew, would ask him a thousand technical questions regarding the rocket's
construction, equipment, and provisioning. He filed the mental pictures away
for later analysis and turned to Larkwell.
"Let's
go." They descended to the plain and rolled the unconscious crewman onto
the stretcher. Crag grunted as he hoisted his end. It wasn't going to be easy.
The
return trip proved a nightmare. Despite the moon's low
surface gravity—one-sixth that of earth—the stretcher seemed an intolerable
weight pulling at their arms. They trudged slowly toward the Aztec with
Crag in the lead, their feet kicking up little fountains of dust.
Before
they had gone half a mile,' they were sweating profusely and their arms and
shoulders ached Under their burden. Larkwell walked
silently, steadily, but his breath was becoming a hoarse pant in Crag's
earphones. The thought came to Crag that they wouldn't make it if, by any
chance, Nagel failed to meet them. But he can't fail—not with Prochaska guiding
them, he thought.
They
reached the end of the rill and stopped to rest Crag checked his oxygen meter.
Not good. Not good at all, but he didn't say anything to Larkwell. The
construction boss swung his eyes morosely over the plain and cursed.
"Nine
planets and thirty-one satellites in the Solar System and we had to pick this
dog," he grumbled. "Gotch must be near-sighted."
Crag
sighed and picked up his end of the stretcher. When Larkwell had followed suit
they resumed their trek. They were moving around the base of a small knoll when
Lark-well's foot struck a pothole in the ash and he stumbled. He dropped the
end of the stretcher in trying to regain his balance. It struck hard against
the ground, transmitting the jolt to Crag's aching shoulders. He lowered his
end of the stretcher, fearful the plow had damaged the. injured man's helmet. Larkwell
"That's what I was thinkin g"
Crag
debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're elected as
angels of mercy. WelL let's go."
"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss
spat. He
looped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled him to the brink of the opening.
"Ought
to shove him out and let him bounce a while," he growled.
Crag
didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metal stanchion and
signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through the hatch. Crag let the line
out slowly until it became slack. Larkwell straightened up and leaned against
the hatch combing with a foolish look on his face. Crag took one look at his
gaping expression.
"Oxygen,"
he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extra cylinder from his belt
and hooked it into Larkwell's suit, turning the
valve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatch combing
before Crag managed to pull him to safety.
Within
moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quickly checked his own
oxygen. It was low. Too low. The time they had lost
taking the wrong route . . the time taken to open Bandit's hatch . had upset NageFs
oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember in the future. He
switched cylinders, then made a rapid calculation. It
was evident they couldn't carry- the injured man back with the amount of oxygen
remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem to Nagel.
"Try
one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit"
"No
go. I've already looked them over." He kicked the problem around in bis
mind.
"Here's
the routine," he told him. "You start out to meet us with a couple of
extra cylinders. Well take along a couple of Bandit's spares to last this
critter until you can modify the valves on his suit to fit our equipment.
Frochaska can guide the works. Okay?"
"Roger,"
Prochaska cut in. Nagel gave an affirmative grunt.
Crag
lowered two of Bandit's cylinders and the stretcher to the floor of the crater, then took a last look around the cabin. Gotch, he
knew, would ask him a thousand technical questions regarding the rocket's
construction, equipment, and provisioning. He filed the mental pictures away
for later analysis and turned to Larkwell.
"Let's
go." They descended to the plain and rolled the unconscious crewman onto
the stretcher. Crag grunted as he hoisted his end. It wasn't going to be easy.
The
return trip proved a nightmare. Despite the moon's low
surface gravity—one-sixth that of earth—the stretcher seemed an intolerable
weight pulling at their arms. They trudged slowly toward the Aztec with
Crag in the lead, their feet kicking up little fountains of dust.
Before
they had gone half a mile,' they were sweating profusely and their arms and
shoulders ached Under their burden. Larkwell walked
silently, steadily, but his breath was becoming a hoarse pant in Crag's
earphones. The thought came to Crag that they wouldn't make it if, by any
chance, Nagel failed to meet them. But he can't fail—not with Prochaska guiding
them, he thought.
They
reached the end of the rill and stopped to rest Crag checked his oxygen meter.
Not good. Not good at all, but he didn't say anything to Larkwell. The
construction boss swung his eyes morosely over the plain and cursed.
"Nine
planets and thirty-one satellites in the Solar System and we had to pick this
dog," he grumbled. "Gotch must be near-sighted."
Crag
sighed and picked up his end of the stretcher. When Larkwell had followed suit
they resumed their trek. They were moving around the base of a small knoll when
Lark-well's foot struck a pothole in the ash and he stumbled. He dropped the
end of the stretcher in trying to regain his balance. It struck hard against
the ground, transmitting the jolt to Crag's aching shoulders. He lowered his
end of the stretcher, fearful the plow had damaged the. injured man's helmet. Larkwell
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