The Third Angel
Frank Tymon

The Conspiracy

Eve’s Comstyk; Recording 014:

          We, the people of the United States, were misinformed.
          No, that’s too mild a statement.
          We were lied to!
          There are three parties involved in the effort to colonize the moon.
          Russia, a leading player.
          The United States, with the economic capability to mount such an effort. And a third party. One you will question, as I did. Yet, it was--IS--the motivation behind this vast program.
          The Russian threat did not exist. It was a plant, a device to unite the support of the nation behind this project. It worked well. Even key project members accepted that threat as being real. Perhaps I’m the only one to realize the fraud, and only after arriving here, the victim of solitary confinement on this vast prison.
          How did I find out?
          During our preparations I often felt that the limited equipment, the meager supplies, being pre-positioned on the lunar surface were completely inadequate. I was right.
But there were other supplies, equipment. Sent there by our erstwhile enemy. Placed there for my use when I arrived. We were working hand in glove with Russia. It was their job to provide adequate equipment in place for the first inhabitant. And they did it well.
          Up to and including the launch from a Russian facility. On a ship of American design, with the specifications furnished to our erstwhile enemy.
          The catalyst for this secret cooperation?
          The third party. The one never discussed. The one whose very existence might have led to mass suicides and senseless despair.
          They are the ones.
          The Others!
          And they are on the moon.
          On the moon…with me!

The Arrival

          I’m sorry. I’m jumping ahead.
          The blast off, the trip to lunar orbit, all routine.
          The landing on the moon, as seen on TV, was also largely routine. Except it didn’t happen that way.
          Instead, NASA informed the world that the mission lifted off in a Russian Rocket from a Russian launch site. Beyond that, they substituted a pre-rehearsed version acted out by the astronauts. And while the world watched that substitute, I debarked, and was conducted to the rille, and to the tubular portion which became my temporary living quarters.
          It was an adventure.
          A storybook world.
          An unbelievable adventure.
          The crew members were amazed that a woman should be so honored. Jealous, and yet, solicitous. They worked hard for my success.
          Peary’s Crater had been studied, restudied. This site held the greatest promise for a successful colony. Here was to be my temporary home.
          The Rille, the amazing extensions of the tube, wonderful. Ah, but the furnishings for my stay are meager, the routine needs met, but little more.
          Outside my quarters, oddly, mounted cameras and alarms, to inform me of intrusion.
Who, or what, might intrude on my solitary sojourn? How very bizarre!

Goodbyes

          The goodbyes were only a bit sad.
          They, or fellow astronauts, would soon return.
          But I had no time for fears, no time for worry. Too much had to be done.
          The Russian astronauts had returned to the Lunar Lander and become actors in the farce to distract attention from the real purpose of the mission.
They performed their parts well. Yet, as they lifted off, I felt a touch of anxiety.
          In due time, they returned to the orbiting ship, which departed as scheduled to return to the earth.
          Only then did I realize the horror of my situation.
          I was the only living creature on this barren rock!
          I sat on the edge of the bed, shivering.

My Prison

          Finally, I stood up, looked around at my home, my prison.
          Although well-designed, and maintained by the Lunars--my title for the little robots--I had to introduce my own schedule, my own activities.
          Fortunately, the Lunars were programmed to adapt to this curious, non-robotic, newcomer.
          But was I?

Robots

          The Russians, flight after flight, had landed the American robots, the machines that turned a barren moon into a livable edifice. And still they work endlessly, monitoring, rushing to repair, hurrying to extend, ever moving on their assigned duties. Not, thank God, a Camp Dora.
          Robots, simply robots.
          Amazingly, even should one become inoperative, that one is quickly taken to their medical facility--actually, a large laboratory--there to be dismembered, reconstructed, and returned to duty.
          Mechanical ants, diligently performing each his ant-like function.

Lunars

          A pair of treads served them for moving from place to place. Three arms, with hands patterned after the human model. One arm on either side, the third in the middle, apparently to allow holding between the outer arms, while the middle arm performed appropriate operations. Smooth rounded body, the center of gravity low, head on an extensible neck, with a short antenna mounted on the head for communication. Various sensors, visual, auditory, and perhaps others of unknown purpose.
          Continuously busy, each performing its individual duties without interfering with the actions of the others. Pre-programmed, organized.
          They could communicate…between themselves.
          And, as I quickly learned, to a limited extent with me.
          At least, one of them could.
          As I prepared to sleep, the door to my quarters slid quietly open.
          I could not believe my eyes.
          A man stood in the doorway!
          I screamed...