"Here's where we stand. We will immediately comb the record of every intelligence agent involved in the last shakedown. We'll also recomb the records of the Aztec crew, including yours. I've got to tell you this because it's serious. If there's a saboteur aboard--and I think there is--then the whole operation's in jeopardy. It'll be up to you to keep your eyes open and analyze your men. We've tried to be careful. We've checked everyone involved back to birth. But there's always the sleeper. It's happened before." "Check," Crag said. "I only hope you don't catch up with all my early peccadillos." "This is no time to be funny. Now, some more news for you. Washington reports that the enemy launched another missile this morning." "Another one?" Crag sighed softly. This time there would be no satelloid, no Pickering to give his life. The Colonel continued grimly. "Radar indicates this is a different kind of rocket. Its rate of climb ... its trajectory ... indicates it's manned. Now it's a race." Crag thought a moment. "Any sign of a drone with it?" "No, that's the surprising part, if this is a full-scale attempt at establishing a moon base. And we believe it is." Crag asked sharply. "It couldn't be their atom-powered job?" The possibility filled him with alarm. "Positively not. We've got our finger squarely on that one and it's a good year from launch-date. No, this is a conventional rocket ... perhaps more advanced than we had believed...." His voice dropped off. "We'll keep you posted," he added after a minute. "Roger." Crag sighed. He removed the earphone reflectively. He wouldn't tell the others yet. Now that they were in space maybe ... just maybe ... he could find time to catch his breath. Damn, they hadn't anticipated all this during indoctrination. The intercept-missile ... time bomb ... possible traitor in the crew. What more could go wrong? For just a second he felt an intense hostility toward Gotch. An Air Force full of pilots and he had to pick him--and he wasn't even in the Air Force at the time. Lord, he should have contented himself with jockeying a jet airliner on some nice quiet hop. Like between L. A. and Pearl ... with a girl at each end of the run. He thought wistfully about the prospect while he made a routine check of the instruments. Cabin pressure normal ... temperature 78 degrees F. ... nothing alarming in the radiation and meteor impact readings. Carbon dioxide content normal. Things might get routine after all, he thought moodily. Except for one thing. The new rocket flashing skyward from east of the Caspian. One thing he was sure of. It spelled trouble. CHAPTER 6