They know, he thought. The open hatch was the giveaway. He anxiously searched Bandit. No sign of life was visible. He gave silent thanks that the invaders had not lugged their rocket launcher with them. Prochaska, he knew, would be watching, crouched in the shadow of the hatch opening behind the heavy automatic rifle. He estimated the distance between the base of the slope and the rocket at 400 yards—close enough for Prochaska to pick off anyone who ventured onto the plain.
He waited while the invader passed abreast of him and descended to the base of the plain, taking cover in the rocks. He halted there and looked back. A few moments later Crag saw the second of the invaders moving down the slope about a hundred yards beyond his companion. He, too, stopped near the base of the rocks. Where was the third man? The same technique they used before, Crag decided. He would be covering his companions' advance from the ridge. That made it more difficult.
He studied the two men at the edge of the plain. It looked like a stalemate. They either had to advance or retreat. Their time was governed by oxygen. If they advanced, they'd be dead pigeons. Prochaska couldn't miss if they chose to cross the clearing. As it was, neither side could get a clear shot at the distance separating them, although the invaders could pour a stream of shells into the open hatch. But Prochaska would be aware of that danger and would have taken refuge to one side of the opening, he decided. There was another complication. The shells were heavy enough to perforate the rocket. Well, he'd worry about that later. He moved his head for a better view of the invaders.
The man nearest him had gotten into a prone position and was doing something with the end of his rifle. Crag watched, puzzled. Suddenly the man brought the rifle to his shoulder, and he saw that the end of the muzzle was bulged. Rifle grenade! Damn, they'd brought a regular arsenal. If he managed to place one in the open hatch, the Bandit crew was doomed. Heedless of the other two Red Dog crewmen, he stepped out between the shoulders of rock to gain freedom of movement and snapped his own weapon to his shoulder. He had trouble fitting his finger into the trigger guard. The enemy was spraddled on his stomach, legs apart, adjusting his body to steady his weapon.
Crag moved his weapon up, bringing the prone man squarely into his sights. He squeezed the trigger, feeling the weapon jump against his padded shoulder, and leaped back into the protective cover of rock. Something struck his face plate. Splinter of rock, he thought. The watcher on the ridge hadn't been asleep. He dropped to his knees and crawled between the rock spurs to gain a new position. The sharp needle fragments under his hands and knees troubled him. One small rip and he'd be the late Adam Crag. He finally reached a place where he could see the lower end of the ridge.
The man he'd shot was a motionless blob on the rocky floor, his arms and legs pulled up in a grotesque fetal position. The vulnerability of human life on the moon struck Crag forcibly. A bullet hole anywhere meant sudden violent death. A hit on the finger was as fatal as a shot through the heart. Once air pressure in a suit was lost a man was dead—horribly dying within seconds. A pinhole in the suit was enough to do it. His eyes searched for the dead man's companions. The ridge and plain seemed utterly lifeless. Bandit was a black canted monolith rising above the plain, seeming to symbolize the utter desolation and silence of Crater Arzachel. For a moment he was fascinated. The very scene portended death. It was an eery feeling. He shook it off and waited. He was finally rewarded by movement. A portion of rock near the edge of the plain seemed to rise—took shape. The dead man's companion had risen to a kneeling position, holding his rifle to his shoulder.
Crag raised his gun, wondering if he could hold the man in his sights. A hundred and fifty yards to a rifleman clothed in a cumbersome space suit seemed a long way. Before he could pull the trigger, the man flung his arms outward, clawing at his throat for an instant before slumping to the rocks. It took Crag a second to comprehend what had happened. Prochaska had been ready.
A figure suddenly filled the dark rectangle of Bandit, pointing toward the ridge behind Crag. He apparently was trying to tell him something. Crag scanned the ridge. It seemed deserted. He turned toward Bandit and motioned toward his faceplate. The other understood. His interphones crackled to life. Prochaska's voice was welcome.
"I see him," he broke in. "He's moving up the slope to your right, trying to reach the top of the ridge. Too far for a shot," he added.
Crag scrambled into a clearing and scanned the ridge, just in time to see a figure disappear over the skyline. He started up the slope in a beeline for the crest. If he could reach it in time, he might prevent the sniper from crossing the open plain which lay between the ridge and Red Dog. Cops and robbers, he thought. Another childhood game had suddenly been recreated, this time on the bleak plain of an airless alien crater 240,000 miles from the sunny Southern California lands of his youth.