One Against the Moon

by Donald A. Wollheim

What he had seen was indeed a rocket. It was at first a dot of white. Then it grew into a line of white like a snowy tree. As he neared it he realized its true dimensions. It was a tall giant rocket, as tall as an eight-story building, long and slim, towering in the desert like an obelisk left by some Aztec ruler. It was held by a framework of metal girders, like that of a newly completed building whose outer skeleton had not yet been dismantled. Near it stood a truck on high, thick wheels which bore a long, cranelike apparatus resembling the tentacles of some weird monster-insect. The rocket stood with its four wide-flanged fins jutting out near the base.

Robin stopped at its base and stared up. He studied it, saw that it was apparently segmented, having lines of cleavage that divided it into four parts, the one at the pointed top being the shortest. This was a four-step rocket, he recognized, and knew at that moment that here also was a step beyond what the public knew.

He walked slowly around it, awed and silent. He noticed now that there was a thin metal ladder running up the standing framework. The crane in the truck was for loading the top, he knew, but he could use this ladder himself to climb up without trying to start the truck-driven lift.

He reached the bottom rung of the skeleton ladder, saw a sign attached to the framework. He looked at it, saw a number, apparently the code designation of this rocket. Glancing over it, the moonlight was not strong enough to allow him to read the words. He looked at the parked truck with the crane, walked over to it, looked inside. He found a flashlight in the dashboard compartment, took it. Lying over the seat was a pea jacket. The air was cold and would become colder. Robin borrowed it, shrugged into it. He saw a package lying beneath it, lifted it. A couple of candy bars it was. The driver must have had a sweet tooth. Robin stuffed the candy into the pocket of the jacket, which had other things in it as well.

He returned to the rocket, read the work sheet by his flashlight. Most of it was incomprehensible. He saw that the sheet referred only to the fueling. Steps two, three, and four were fueled. Step one, the big one at the base was still empty and he saw that it was marked for fueling by five that morning. Firing time, he noted, was set for six.

Robin glanced up. Here was a chance to examine the rocket completely. Glancing around again, he swung up the ladder, started the climb. The rocket's sides were welded metal, shiny and painted white. The various fuel sections were numbered in large black letters and the contents listed. He saw that the first and main fuel chamber occupied half of the length. The three upper sections, already loaded, he remembered, were marked in liters. The name of the fuel was meaningless to him. It must be, he thought, the atomic stuff the soldier had mentioned. This rocket could be a huge atomic bomb, he thought, chilled for a moment. But he continued climbing. At the very tip, he saw that two small, circular doors, like the escape hatches of submarines, were set flush in the side. One was closed, the upper and larger one was slightly ajar. He reached it, looked in. He flashed his light, peered around. It was a narrow, closetlike space, filling a section of the uppermost tip, just beneath the point of the top. It was padded and empty.

Robin looked out from his perch at the top of the ladder. He looked away across the desert to the distant buildings of the Red Sands Station. He started suddenly. Something was blinking in the distance. He strained his eyes. Two tiny white lights were moving toward him from far away. He heard the distant purr of a motor. A jeep was coming to the rocket from the Red Sands Station. Had they seen his flashlight? Were they coming to investigate?

He glanced desperately downward. The ground seemed so far away. He could never climb down the ladder in time to escape detection. The jeep was approaching swiftly. What could he do?

In a flash of inspiration, he saw the open port of the dark closet-space at the rocket's tip. He climbed into it, swinging out from the ladder, hovering over the abyss, swinging his legs into the dark, padded interior. He crammed himself into it, found he fitted it neatly with very little room to spare and, grasping the circular door, pulled it toward him. It swung shut on its oiled hinges, clicked tightly into place.

Robin crouched down, silent.