One Against the Moon

by Donald A. Wollheim

The bus roared on for what seemed at least another hour. Finally it approached another fenced-in area, slowed down, and came to a halt briefly before a guarded gateway. The men stirred in their seats, the sleepers were nudged awake, everyone started to squirm around. The driver exchanged a few words with the guards, the bus shifted gears, rolled slowly through the gate, and came to a stop. Stiffly the men began to climb out.

Robin waited until about half the men had preceded him, then, keeping his head low, followed. As the men jumped down from the bus, they stepped up to an MP standing by and showed him their passes. He examined each with a flashlight, took it, and waved the men on.

Robin's feet hit the ground. Carefully keeping close to the man in front of him, he dug for the pass he'd found in his borrowed jacket. Holding it out, he stepped up to the guard. The pass was seized, scrutinized, and with a tap of the hand, Robin was waved on.

The men were striding off in the direction of a group of low, long buildings of the standard army barracks type. Robin took the same general direction, casting his eyes about trying to estimate where he was and what was around.

The moon was high and its light was strong in the clear desert air. A few dim bulbs showed on posts and one or two lights were flashed in the windows of the barracks. The men were heading directly for their beds—and Robin knew he had to head in the same direction if he did not wish to incur suspicion. It was a ticklish moment, for he did not dare do anything to arouse the suspicion that he was a stranger here.

It was a long walk across the parade grounds and he allowed as much space as possible to drag out between himself and the other men. He came closer to the dark barracks buildings, walked along toward a dark doorway through which another man had gone. Turning his head he saw no one near him who might be watching, and Robin stepped into the dark doorway, then quickly side-stepped, slipped around the side of the building, and walked silently down the dark space between the two adjoining barracks.

At the far end of the structures, remaining hidden in the shadow cast by the moon, he looked outward. He could see, stretching out beyond, the level ground of the desert. He could make out the structures of what looked like hangars and machine shops, and he could see a number of vehicles, trucks, and odd cranes parked around. Far away he caught a glimpse of something white. Was it a rocket?

He crouched in the shadow and waited. After a while he heard no more footsteps, he saw the last lights in the barracks flicker out and silence descend on the station. He glanced at his watch. It was about two in the morning.

Silently he moved out of the barracks' shadow, walked fast and softly to the shadow of the nearest truck. Reaching it, he paused, looked back. Nothing stirred. Proceeding in that fashion, Robin moved from shadow to shadow, keeping as little in the bright moonlight as he could. He reached a building, clearly a tool house. He walked along it, went on beyond, passed through the shadowed side of a long hangar, found a narrow roadway leading out to where the mysterious white object rested. He walked alongside it, half stooping, but feeling sure that no one had seen him. The Red Sands Station was silent.

The white object proved to be a good deal farther away than he'd thought. He knew that distances in the desert were very deceptive, felt himself growing tired. Why, this objective might be two or three miles away, he realized now, but only increased his pace as if in answer to his tiring frame. The cold, dry desert air was bracing, and nothing moved save the occasional scurry of some tiny rat or lizard.