Larkwell's fingers had found the hole, a tiny rip just under the shoulder. Crag examined it, conscious that something was wrong. It didn't look like the kind of hole a meteorite would make. It looked, he thought, like, a small rip. The kind of a rip a knife point might make. He stared up at Larkwell. The construction boss's eyes met his and he nodded his head affirmatively. Crag got to his feet and faced the German. "Where were you when this happened?" "Ahead of him," Richter answered. "We were strung out. I think I was next in line behind you." Larkwell said softly: "You got here before I did. That would put you behind me." "I was ahead of you when we started." The German contemplated Larkwell calmly. "I didn't see you pass me." Crag turned to Nagel. "Where were you, Gordon?" "At the rear, as usual." His voice was bitter. "How far was Prochaska ahead of you?" "I wouldn't know." He looked away into the blackness, then back to Crag. "Would you expect me to?" Crag debated. Clearly he wasn't getting anywhere with the interrogation. He looked at Nagel. The man seemed on the verge of collapse. "We'll carry Max back. Lend a hand, Richter." His voice turned cold. "I want to examine that rip in the light." The German nodded calmly. "Stay together," Crag barked. "No stringing out Larkwell, you lead the way." "Okay." The construction boss started toward Bandit. Nagel fell in at his heels. Crag and Richter, carrying Prochaska's body between them, brought up at the rear. It took the last of Crag's strength before they managed to get the body into the space cabin. The men were silent while he conducted his examination. He removed the dead man's space suit, then stripped the clothing from the upper portion of his body, examining the flesh in the area where the suit had been punctured. The skin was unmarked. He studied the rip carefully. It was a clean slit. "No meteorite," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was cold, dangerously low. Larkwell's face was grim. Nagel wore a dazed, almost uncomprehending expression. Richter looked thoughtful. Crag's face was an icy mask but his thoughts were chaotic. Fear crept into his mind. This was the danger Gotch had warned him of. Richter? The saboteur? His eyes swung from man to man, coming finally to rest on the German. While he weighed the problem, one part of his mind told him a warhead was scorching down from the sides. Time was running out. He came to a decision. He ordered Larkwell and Richter to strip the pressure gear from Prochaska's body and carry it down to the plain. "Well bury him later--after the warhead." "If we're here," Larkwell observed. "I have every intention of being here," Crag said evenly. CHAPTER 20 The day of the warhead arrived.