The communicator came to life with data on Pickering. The satelloid was moving higher, faster than the Aztec, riding the rim of the exosphere where the atmosphere is indistinguishable from absolute space. Crag felt thankful he hadn't been tabbed for the job. The satelloid was a fragile thing compared to the Aztec—a moth compared to a hawk. It was a relative handful of light metals and delicate electronic components, yet it moved at frightful speeds over the course the armchair astronauts had dubbed "Sputnik Avenue." It was a piloted vehicle, a mite with small stubby wings to enable it to glide through the air ocean to safe sanctuary after orbiting the earth. Pickering would be crouched in its scant belly, a space hardly larger than his body, cramped in a pressure suit that made movement all but impossible. His smallest misjudgment would spell instant death. Crag marveled at Pickering's audacity. Clearly he had the roughest mission. While he thought about it, he kept one part of his mind centered on the communicator absorbing the data on the satelloid's position and speed.

The Northern tip of Africa came up fast. The Dark Continent of history seen from the borders of space was a yellow-green splotch hemmed by blue. The satelloid was still beyond the Aztec's radar range but a data link analog painted in the relationship between the two space vehicles. The instrument's automatic grid measured the distance between them in hundreds of miles. Pickering, aloft before them, had fled into the east and already was beginning to overtake them from the west. The ships were seen on the analog as two pips, two mites aloft in the air ocean. Crag marveled at the satelloid's tremendous speed. It was a ray of metal flashing along the fringes of space, a rapier coming out of the west.

The Middle East passed under them, receding, a mass of yellow-green and occasional smoke-blue splotches. The earth was a giant curvature, not yet an orb, passing into the shadow of night. It was a night of fantastic shortness, broken by daylight over the Pacific. The ocean was an incredible blue, blue-black he decided. The harsh sound of the communicator came to life. Someone wanted a confab with Crag. A private confab. Prochaska wrinkled his brow questioningly. Crag switched to his ear insert phone and acknowledged.

"A moment," a voice said. He waited.

"Commander, we've bad news for you." It was Gotch's voice, a rasp coming over a great distance.

"The S-two reports a rocket being tracked by radar. ComSoPac's picked it up. It's on intercept course."

Crag's thoughts raced. The S-two was the satelloid's code name. "Any idea what kind?"

"Probably a sub-launched missile—riding a beam right to you. Or the drone," he added. He was silent for a second. "Well, we sort of expected this might happen, Commander. It's a tough complication."

A helluva lot of good that does, Crag thought. What next? Another set of pilots, more indoctrination, new rockets, another zero hour. Gotch would win the moon if he had to use the whole Air Force. He said, "Well, it's been a nice trip, so far."

"Get Prochaska on the scope."

"He's on and ... hold it." The Chief was making motions toward the scope. "No, it's the satelloid. He's—"

Gotch broke in with more data. Then it was there.

"He's got it," Crag announced. Gotch was silent. He watched the analog. All three pips were visible. The satelloid was still above them, rushing in, fast. The interceptor was lower to the northwest, cutting into their path. He thought it was the Drone Able story all over again. Only this time it wasn't a supply rocket. It was a warhead, a situation they couldn't control.

Couldn't control? Or could they? He debated the question, then quickly briefed Prochaska and cut him in on the com circuit.

"We can use Drone Able as an intercept," he told Gotch.

"No!" The word came explosively.

Crag snapped, "Drone Able won't be a damn bit of good without the Aztec."

"No, this is ground control, Commander." Gotch abruptly cut off. Crag cursed.

"Calling Step One.... Calling Step One. S-two calling Step One. Are you receiving? Over." The voice came faint over the communicator, rising and falling.

"Step One," Crag said, adjusting his lip mike. He acknowledged the code call while his mind registered the fact it wasn't Alpine Base. There was a burst of static. He waited a moment, puzzled.

"S-two calling...."

Pickering! He had been slow in recognizing the satelloid's code call. The voice faded—was lost. His thought raced. Pickering was up there in the satelloid moving higher, faster than the Aztec, hurtling along the rim of space in a great circle around the earth. The stubby-winged rocket ship was a minute particle in infinity, yet it represented a part in the great adventure. It was the hand of Michael Gotch reaching toward them. For the instant, the knowledge gave him a ray of hope—hope as quickly dashed. The S-two was just a high-speed observation and relay platform; a manned vehicle traveling the communication orbit established by the Army's earlier Explorer missiles. He turned back to Prochaska and sketched in his plan of using Drone Able as an intercept.

"Could be." The Chief bit his lip reflectively. "We could control her through her steering rockets, but we'd have to be plenty sharp. We'd only get one crack."

"Chances are the intercept is working on a proximity fuse," Crag reasoned. "All we'd have to do is work the drone into its flight path. We could use our own steering rockets to give us a bigger margin of safety."

"What would the loss of Able mean?"

Crag shrugged. "I'm more concerned with what the loss of the Aztec would mean."

"Might work." The Chief looked sharply at him. "What does Alpine say?"

"They say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was much nearer. So was the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for an eye-witness report, he thought sourly. Probably got an automatic camera so Gotch can watch the show. He looked quizzically at Prochaska. The Chief wore a frozen mask. He got back on the communicator and repeated his request. When he finished, there was a dead silence in the void.

The Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully at Prochaska. Last time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited to leave the Air Force. But Gotch had taken him despite that. He glanced over his shoulder trying to formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back in his seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog, he thought. He doesn't know what he's in for. He twisted his head further. Nagel watched him with a narrow look. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind and turned back to the analog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across the grid. The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid was dropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too. Much nearer. Prochaska watched the scene on his radarscope.

"She's coming fast," he murmured. His face had paled.

"Too fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine. Gotch came on immediately.

Crag said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept. It's the only chance."

"Commander, I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy, biting.

"Ground has no control over this situation," Crag snapped angrily.

"I said ground control, Commander. That's final."

"I'm using Drone Able."

"Commander Crag, you'll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Gotch raged. "Don't move that Drone."

For a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just now he'd like to be guaranteed the chance to clear the heads at Alpine Base. It sounded good—real good. There was another burst of static. Pickering's voice came in—louder, clearer, a snap through the ether.

"Don't sacrifice the drone, Commander!"

"Do you know a better way?"

Pickering's voice dropped to a laconic drawl.

"Reckon so."

Crag glanced at the analog and gave a visible start. The satelloid was lower, moving in faster along a course which would take it obliquely through the space path being traversed by the Aztec. If there was such a thing as a wake in space, that's where the satelloid would chop through, cutting down toward the intercept. He's using his power, he thought, the scant amount of fuel he would need for landing. But if he used it up....

He slashed the thought off and swung to the communicator.

"Step One to S-two ... Step One to S-two ..."

"S-two." Pickering came in immediately.

Crag barked, "You can't—"

"That's my job," Pickering cut in. "You gotta get that bucket to the moon." Crag looked thoughtfully at the communicator.

"Okay," he said finally. "Thanks, fellow."

"Don't mention it. The Air Force is always ready to serve," Pickering said. "Adios." He cut off.

Crag stared at the analog, biting his lip, feeling the emotion surge inside him. It grew to a tumult.

"Skipper!" Prochaska's voice was startled. "For God's sake ... look!"

Crag swung his eyes to the scope. The blip representing Pickering had cut their flight path, slicing obliquely through their wake. At its tremendous speed only the almost total absence of air molecules kept the satelloid from turning into a blazing torch. Down ... down ... plunging to meet the death roaring up from the Pacific. They followed it silently. A brief flare showed on the scope. They looked at the screen for a long moment.

"He was a brave man," Prochaska said simply.

"A pile of guts." Crag got on the communicator. Gotch listened. When he had finished, Gotch said:

"After this, Commander, follow ground orders. You damned near fouled up the works. I don't want to see that happen again."

"Yes, Sir, but I couldn't have expected that move."

"What do you think Pickering was up there for?" Gotch asked softly. "He knew what he was doing. That was his job. Just like the couple that got bumped at the Blue Door. It's tough, Commander, but some people have to die. A lot have, already, and there'll be a lot more."

He added brusquely, "You'll get your chance." The communicator was silent for a moment. "Well, carry on."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Crag said. He glanced over his shoulder.

Larkwell was leaning over in his seat, twisting his body to see out the side port. His face was filled with the wonder of space. Nagel didn't stir. His eyes were big saucers in his white, thin face. Crag half expected to see his lips quiver, and wondered briefly at the courage it must have taken for him to volunteer. He didn't seem at all like the hero type. Still, look at Napoleon. You could never tell what a man had until the chips were down. Well, the chips were down. Nagel better have it. He turned reflectively back to the forward port thinking that the next two days would be humdrum. Nothing would ever seem tough again. Not after what they had just been through.

Prochaska fell into the routine of calling out altitude and speed. Crag listened with one part of his mind occupied with Pickering's sacrifice. Would he have had the courage to drive the satelloid into the warhead? Did it take more guts to do that than to double for a man slated to be murdered? He mulled the questions. Plainly, Step One was jammed with heroes.

"Altitude, 1,000 miles, speed, 22,300." Prochaska whispered the words, awe in his voice. They looked at each other wordlessly.

"We've made it," Crag exulted. "We're on that old moon trajectory." The Chiefs face reflected his wonder. Crag studied his instruments. Speed slightly over 22,300 miles per hour. The radar altimeter showed the Aztec slightly more than one thousand miles above the earth's surface. He hesitated, then cut off the third stage engine. The fuel gauge indicated a bare few gallons left. This small amount, he knew, represented error in the precise computations of escape. Well, the extra weight was negligible. At the same time, they couldn't afford added acceleration. He became aware that the last vestige of weight had vanished. He moved his hand. No effort. No effort at all. Space, he thought, the first successful manned space ship.

Elation swept him. He, Adam Crag, was in space. Not just the top of the atmosphere but absolute space—the big vacuum that surrounded the world. This had been the aim ... the dream ... the goal. And so quick!

He flicked his mind back. It seemed almost no time at all since the Germans had electrified the world with the V-2, a primitive rocket that scarcely reached seventy miles above the earth, creeping at a mere 3,000 miles per hour.

The Americans had strapped a second stage to the German prototype, creating the two-stage V-2-Wac Corporal and sending it 250 miles into the tall blue at speeds better than 5,000 miles per hour. It had been a battle even then, he thought, remembering the dark day the Russians beat the West with Sputnik I ... seemingly demolished it with Sputnik II—until the U. S. Army came through with Explorer I. That had been the real beginning. IRBM's and ICBM's had been born. Missiles and counter-missiles. Dogs, monkeys and mice had ridden the fringes of space. But never man.

A deep sense of satisfaction flooded him. The Aztec had been the first. The Aztec under Commander Adam Crag. The full sense of the accomplishment was just beginning to strike him. We've beaten the enemy, he thought. We've won. It had been a grim battle waged on a technological front; a battle between nations in which, ironically, each victory by either side took mankind a step nearer emancipation from the world. Man could look forward now, to a bright shiny path leading to the stars. This was the final step. The Big Step. The step that would tie together two worlds. In a few short days the Aztec would reach her lonely destination, Arzachel, a bleak spot in the universe. Adam Crag, the Man in the Moon. He hoped. He turned toward the others, trying to wipe the smug look from his face.

The oddity of weightlessness was totally unlike anything he had expected despite the fact its symptoms had been carefully explained during the indoctrination program. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, yet he wasn't. He felt no sense of pressure against the seat, or against anything else, for that matter. It was, he thought, like sitting on air, as light as a mote of dust drifting in a breeze. Sure, he'd experienced weightlessness before, when pushing a research stratojet through a high-speed trajectory to counter the pull of gravity, for example. But those occasions had lasted only brief moments. He moved his hand experimentally upward—a move that ended like the strike of a snake. Yeah, it was going to take some doing to learn control of his movements. He looked at Prochaska. The Chief was feeding data to Alpine Base. He finished and grinned broadly at Crag. His eyes were elated.

"Sort of startling, isn't it?"

"Amen," Crag agreed. "I'm almost afraid to loosen my harnessing.

"Alpine says we're right on the button—schedule, course and speed. There's a gal operator on now."

"That's good. That means we're back to routine." Crag loosened his harnesses and twisted around in his seat. Larkwell was moving his hands experimentally. He saw Crag and grinned foolishly. Nagel looked ill. His face was pinched, bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed. He caught Crag's look and nodded, without expression.

"Pretty rough," Crag said sympathetically. His voice, in the new-born silence, possessed a curious muffled effect. "We're past the worst."

Nagel's lips twisted derisively. "Yeah?"

The querulous tone grated Crag and he turned back to the controls. Every minor irritant will assume major proportions. That's what Doc Weldon had warned. Well, damnit, he wouldn't let Nagel get him down. Besides, what was his gripe? They were all in the same boat. He turned to the instrument console, checking the myriad of dials, gauges and scopes. Everything seemed normal, if there was such a thing as normalcy in space. He said reflectively, speaking to no one in particular:

"Maybe I should have been more truthful with the Colonel before taking on this damned job of moon pilot. There's something I didn't tell him."

"What?" Prochaska's face was startled.

"I've never been to the moon before."