The problems confronting him gnawed at his mind until each small difficulty assumed giant proportions. Each time he managed to fit the work into a proper mental perspective a new problem or disaster cropped up. He grew nervous and irritable. In his frantic haste to complete the work on Red Dog he found himself begrudging the crew the few hours they took off each day for sleep. _Take it easy_, he finally told himself. _Slow down_, Adam. Yet despite his almost hourly resolves to slow down, he found himself pushing at an ever faster pace. Complete Red Dog ... complete Red Dog ... became a refrain in his mind. Larkwell grew sullen and surly, snapping at Richter at the slightest provocation. Nagel became completely indifferent, and in the process, completely ineffectual. Crag had long realized that the oxygen man had reached his physical limits. Now, he knew, Nagel had passed them. Maybe he was right ... maybe he wouldn't leave the moon. When the break in Red Dog was repaired, Crag waited, tense and jittery, while Nagel entered the rocket and pressurized it. It'll work, he told himself. It's got to work. The short period Nagel remained in the rocket seemed to extend into hours before he opened the hatch. "One or two small leaks," he reported wearily. He looked disconsolately at Crag. "Maybe we can locate them--with a little time." "Good." Crag nodded, relieved. Another crisis past. He ordered Larkwell to start pulling the engines. If things went right.... The work didn't progress nearly as fast as he had hoped. For one thing, the engines weren't designed for removal. They were welded fast against cross beams spread between the hull. Consequently, the metal sides of the ship were punctured numerous times before the job was completed. Each hole required another weld, another patch, and increased the danger of later disaster. Crag grew steadily moodier. Larkwell seemed to take a vicious satisfaction out of each successive disaster. He had adopted an I-told-you-so attitude that grated Crag's nerves raw. Surprisingly enough, Richter proved to be a steadying influence, at least to Crag. He worked quietly, efficiently, seeming to anticipate problems and find solutions before even Crag recognized them. Despite the fact that he found himself depending on the German more and more, he was determined never to relax his surveillance over the man. Richter was an enemy--a man to be watched. Larkwell and Nagel were lackadaisically beginning work on the ship's airlock when Prochaska came on the interphones with an emergency call. "Gotch calling," he told Crag. "He's hot to get you on the line." Crag hesitated. "Tell him to go to hell," he said finally. "I'll call him on the regular hour." "He said you'd say that," Prochaska informed him amiably, "but he wants you now." Another emergency--another hair-raiser. _Gotch is a damn ulcer-maker_, Crag thought savagely. "Okay, I'm on my way," he said wearily. "Anything to keep him off my back."