Rick had been counting. "Only thirty-four went aboard."
Elliot looked ashamed. "I can't find any more, Captain."
They've run, Rick thought. Well, I can understand that. I thought of it myself. "Get aboard, then," he ordered. After Elliot climbed in, Rick followed. They were the last.
As soon as Rick cleared the entryway, the outer door slid closed. When he went through into the compartment with the troops, that entryway closed also. They were blocked off from the outside and from the control room-or whatever that room was, Rick thought. Mason was still in there with the aliens.
There was a loud musical tone, and a voice said, "Everyone will please sit on the floor. Quickly."
"Get down!" Rick shouted. "Hit the deck!" He sat heavily, just in time. There was a feeling of far too much weight, and some of the troops who hadn't obeyed quickly enough fell heavily. Loose equipment fell and rolled around the compartment.
There were sideways accelerations. The feeling of motion went on for a long time. Then it stopped and they had normal weight again.
"Medic!" someone shouted. One of the troopers was holding his wrist, broken in a fall to the deck. Sergeant McCleve went to the downed man. McCleve was an older trooper, a career soldier rumored to have graduated from a Mexican medical school and unable to obtain a license to practice in the United States due to heavy drinking. Rick didn't know, but McCleve had always seemed very competent.
The troops were all talking at once. Some swore, and one or two prayed. Others got up and roamed around the compartment. There was nothing to see.
They were in a large rectangular metal room, and very little more could be said about it. Rick couldn't even tell where the light came from; it was just there, and although there were multiple shadows, they were very faint.
"I think we got away," Rick shouted. "Let the Cubans figure that one out!"
There was a cheer that sounded artificial. Rick smiled grimly. He didn't feel much like cheering himself.
"Level with us, sir," Corporal Gengrich said. "How'd the CIA get a thing like this? And why the hell did they need us if they've got-" he waved expressively-"these?"
It was a good question, and Rick had no idea of how to answer.
"All in good time," Lieutenant Parsons said. "All in good time. Count your blessings."
"But-" Gengrich began.
"Shut up." Sergeant Elliot was nervous and fell back on military tradition as something familiar and understood. An officer had spoken, and that was that.
It won't last, Rick thought. Elliot had strong views about officers: he assumed they were competent, wanted them to be, demanded that they be. He knew that there were plenty of incompetents with bars and leaves, but he was proud enough of his Army that he'd kill himself trying to cover for them. But Rick suspected that Elliot would not hesitate to frag a bad officer for the honor of the corps.
There were more accelerations, this time not so violent. The ship was turning. Rick felt trapped, but he tried to keep his expression calm and unworried. He didn't know how successful he was at that, but he thought it was important that the troops think he was confident.
We are, he thought, thirty-six armed men and some heavy weapons, in a ship controlled by aliens-aliens! I don't have the faintest notion of where I am, where we're going, or what those creatures want with us.
He was certain they were in space. That decided one thing: they certainly didn't need any shooting. Not that there was anything to shoot at, but there were a lot of weapons available, and some might punch holes in the ship. The metal walls didn't seem too thick, and Rick had no idea of how strong they might be. Even supposing they could blow open a door and found air beyond it, and that they could go through the ship and kill or capture every alien in it-what then? They couldn't fly it; they couldn't land it; they couldn't even operate the food and water and air system.
And so far no one had threatened them.
Two hours later they were all certain they were in space. There was a brief warning tone, and a voice said, "There will be a period of no-weight. Please secure all equipment and secure yourselves."
The only thing they could secure themselves to was a low bar a bit above waist height that ran around two sides of the compartment like the rails ballet dancers use for exercise. Rick managed to get most of the troops over to those walls. They tied lines to as much of the gear as they could. They were just finishing when there was another musical tone.
They had no weight at all. Loose objects drifted slowly. Several men looked sick, and one was. The vomit floated around in large pools. Other men turned green.
"Jesus, we got to get out of here!" one soldier yelled.
"Shut up!" Elliot didn't look too good himself. "Captain-"
He didn't finish the question. The ship went through more gyrations, none very severe. Then, slowly, everything drifting in the air began to settle toward the deck. They felt increasing weight, building up to what seemed almost-but not quite- normal again.
This time it was much harder to calm the troops. They hung onto their weapons and stared around the compartment looking for someone to fight, something they could do. Rick thought he could literally smell the fear in the compartment, and it was contagious. He felt like a caged animal.
"For God's sake, where are we going?" Gengrich demanded.
"The journey will last two more hours," the voice said. It spoke from nowhere at all.
"So they can listen to us," Parsons said. He lowered his voice to an undertone. "Are you certain there is nothing else you wish to tell me?"
"Not just now."
Parsons shrugged. "As you will. But I hope this does not last much more than a few hours. It will be difficult to control the men if it goes on much longer." He made a wry face. "It will be difficult to control me."
"Yeah," Rick said. He knew exactly how Andrй Parsons felt.
The voice's time estimate was accurate. Rick's watch said they had been aboard for four hours and five minutes when the warning tones sounded again and they were told to secure themselves.
This time they never had a period of no-weight, but the accelerations were short and sharp, in little spurts. There were periods of varying gravity between spurts. Finally they felt a slight impact, no more than they might have felt jumping from a chair to the floor. The accelerations ceased.
They didn't weigh enough. Nowhere near enough, and this was steady. Rick looked around in surprise, a wild suspicion coming to his mind. Some of the troops were muttering. Corporal Gengrich thoughtfully took a cartridge from his pocket and dropped it, watched it fall slowly.
About one-sixth gravity, Rick thought. There was no hiding that, and no hiding what it meant.
Gengrich shouted it first. "God Almighty, we're on the friggin' Moon!"
3
The troopers had little time to-react to Gengrich. The compartment door opened, and Corporal Mason came in. His face looked like grey ashes, and he held his right arm against his chest. The compartment door remained open to the entry chamber, but all the other doors were closed.
"Mason-"
"Where the hell you been?"
"What's wrong, Art? What in hell did they do to you?"
The men were all shouting at once. Sergeant McCleve went over with his medical kit.
"At ease!" Rick shouted. Sergeant Elliot repeated the order more loudly. There were mutters, but the shouting stopped.
Rick joined Mason and McCleve. "What happened?"
"Jesus, Captain, we're on the Moon," Mason said. "The bastards brought us to the Moon!"
"Yes," Rick said.
"I saw it all," Mason said. The troops crowded around to listen.
Rick nodded to himself. It was time the men found out what had happened. He thought he should have told them before.