Each man carried three cylinders. When they reached Red Dog, Larkwell scrambled down into the rill and moved the oxygen cylinders, which Crag and Richter lowered, into the rocket through the new airlock. They increased the load to four cylinders each on the following trip, a decision Crag regretted long before they reached Red Dog. It was a nightmarish, body-breaking trek that left him staggering with sheer fatigue. He marveled at Larkwell and Richter. Both were small men physically. Small but tough, he thought. Tough and durable. Nagel was awake, waiting for them when they returned for another load. He greeted them with a slightly sheepish look. "Guess I caved in." "That you did," Crag affirmed. "Not that I can blame you. I'm just about at that point myself." Nagel spoke listlessly. "Alpine sent a message." "Oh?" Crag waited expectantly. "Colonel Gotch. He said the latest figures indicated the rocket would strike south of Alphons at 1350 hours." South of Alphons? How far south? It would be close, Crag thought Maybe too close. Maybe by south of Alphons Gotch meant Arzachel. Well, in that case his worries would be over. He looked at the master chrono. Time for two more trips--if they hurried. * * * * * They were making their last trip to Bandit. Larkwell led the way with Crag bringing up the rear. They trudged slowly, tiredly, haunted by the shortness of time, yet they had pushed themselves to their limit. They simply couldn't move faster. Strange, Crag thought, there's a rocket in the sky--a warhead, a nuclear bomb hurtling down from the vastness of space--slanting in on its target The target: Adam Crag and crew. If we survive this ... what next? The question haunted him. How much could they take? Specifically, how much could _he_ take? He shook the mood off. He'd take what he had to take. He thought: _One more load and we'll hole up._ The prospect of ending their toil perked up his spirits. During the time of the bomb they'd sleep--sleep. Sleep and eat and rest and sleep some more. Halfway to Bandit he suddenly sensed something wrong. Richter's form, ahead, was a black shadow. Beyond him, Nagel was a blob of movement. He flicked his torch on, shooting its beams into the darkness beyond the oxygen man. Larkwell--there was no sign of Larkwell. He quickened his pace, weaving the light back and forth on both sides of their path. "Larkwell?" His voice was imperative. No answer. "Larkwell?" Silence mocked him. Richter stopped short. Nagel turned, coming toward him in the night. "Where's Larkwell?" "He was ahead of me." It was Nagel. Richter shrugged. "Can't see that far ahead." Crag's thoughts came in a jumbled train. Had Larkwell been hit by a meteorite? No, they would have seen him fall. "Must have drawn ahead," Richter observed quietly. There was something in his voice that disturbed Crag. "Why doesn't he answer?" Nagel cut in. "Why? why?"