They all nodded solemnly. Art said, “Doc?”
“Suppose it’s your film that shows the over dosage?”
“Me? Not likely! If it does you can kick me all the way to the gate — I’m afraid of that stuff!
“Just the same,” he went on more seriously, “you run the same checks on me as on everybody else. Now let’s have supper. I want you and Morrie to do the KP tonight, so that Ross can start his study period right after supper. Ross, you and I are getting up at five, so let’s hit the sack early.” “Okay. What’s cookin’?”
“Trip into Albuquerque — shopping.” He was reluctant to explain. The place had no firearms. They had seemed a useless expense — many a man has spent years in the desert without shooting off anything but his mouth, he had reasoned. As for the dreamed of trip, what could one shoot on the moon? But signs of prowlers, even in this fenced and forbidding area, had him nervous. Art’s watch-dog fence was tested each night and Art slept with the low power-hum of the hot circuit in his ears; thus far there had been no new alarm. Still he was nervous.
Cargraves was awakened about three A.M. to find Art shaking his shoulder and light pouring in his eyes. “Doc! Doc! Wake up!”
“Huh? Wassamatter?”
“I got a squawk over the loudspeaker.”
Cargraves was out of bed at once. They bent over the speaker. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I’ve got the volume low, but you’d hear it. There it is again — get it?” There had been an unmistakable squawk from the box. “Shall I wake the others?”
“Mmmm . . . no. Not now. Why did you turn on the light?”
“I guess I wanted it,” Art admitted.
“I see.” Cargraves hauled on trousers and fumbled with his shoes. “I want you to turn out the lights for ten seconds. I’m going out that window. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, or if you hear anything that sounds bad, wake the boys and come get me. But stay together. Don’t separate for any reason.” He slipped a torch in his pocket. “Okay.”
“You ought not to go by yourself.”
“Now, Art. I thought we had settled such matters.”
“Yes, but — oh, well !” Art posted himself at the switch.
Cargraves was out the window and had cat-footed it around behind the machine shop before the light came on again. He lurked in the shadow and let his eyes get used to the darkness.
It was a moonless night, clear and desert sharp. Orion blazed in the eastern sky. Cargraves soon was able to pick out the sage bushes, the fence posts, the gloomy bulk of the ship a hundred yards away.
The padlock on the machine shop was undisturbed and the shop’s windows were locked. Doing his best to take advantage of the scanty cover, he worked his way down to the ship.
The door was ajar. He could not remember whether he or Ross had been last man out. Even if it had been Ross, it was not like Ross to fail to lock the door.
He found that he was reluctant to enter the craft. He wished that he had not put off buying guns; a forty-five in his hand would have comforted him. He swung the door open and scrambled in fast, ducking quickly away from the door, where his silhouette would make a target. He crouched in the darkness, listening and trying to slow his pounding heart. When he was sure he could hear nothing, he took the flashlight, held it at arm’s length away from him and switched it on.
The piloting compartment was empty. Somewhat relieved, he sneaked back through the hold, empty also, and into the drive compartment. Empty. Nothing seemed disturbed.
He left the ship cautiously, this time making sure that the door was locked. He made a wide sweep around the cabin and machine shop and tried to assure himself that no one was inside the corral. But in the starlight, fifty men might have hidden in the sage, simply by crouching down and holding still.
He returned to the cabin, whistling to Art as he approached. “About time you got back,” Art complained. “I was just about to roust out the others and come and get you. Find anything?”