"Larkwell! Larkwell, answer me!" Silence. A great silence. A suspicion struck his mind. Crag caught his breath, horrified at the thought. "Let's get moving--fast." He struck out in the direction of Bandit, forcing his tired legs into a trot. His boots struck against the plain, shooting needles of pain up his legs. His body grew sweaty and clammy, hot and cold by turn. A chill foreboding gripped him. He tried to light the way with his torch. The rocks made elusive shadows--shadows that danced, receded, grew and shortened by turn, until he couldn't discriminate between shadow and rock. He stumbled--fell heavily--holding his breath fearfully until he was re-assured his suit hadn't ripped. After that he slowed his pace, moving more carefully. His torch was a yellow eye preceding him across the plain. Bandit rose before him, jutting against the stars, an ominous black shadow. He moved his light, playing it over the plain. Larkwell--where was Larkwell? The yellow beam caressed the rocket, wandering over its base. Something was wrong--dreadfully wrong. It took him an instant to realize that the rope ladder had vanished. He swung the torch upward. Its yellow beams framed Larkwell's body against the hatch. "Larkwell." Crag called imperiously. The figure in the hatch didn't move. Richter came up and stood beside him. Crag cast a helpless glance at him. The German was silent, motionless, his face turned upward toward the space cabin as if he were lost in contemplation. Crag called again, anger in his voice. There was a moment of silence before a voice tinkled in his earphones. "Larkwell? There's no Larkwell here." The words were spoken slowly, tauntingly. Crag snapped wrathfully: "This is no time to be joking. Toss that ladder down and make it quick." The silence mocked him for a long moment before Larkwell answered. "I'm not joking, Mister Crag." He emphasized the word _Mister_. "There is no Larkwell. At least, not here." A fearful premonition came to Crag. He turned toward Richter. The German hadn't moved. He touched his arm and began edging back until he was well clear of the base of the rocket. Nagel stood off to one side, seeming helpless and forlorn in the drama being enacted. Crag marshaled his thoughts. "Larkwell?" "My name is Malin ... if it interest you, Mister Crag. Igor Malin." The words were spoken in a jeer. Crag felt the anger well inside him. All the pent-up emotion he had suppressed since leaving earth boiled volcanically until his body shook like a leaf. The scar on his face tingled, burned, and he involuntarily reached to rub it before remembering his helmet. He waited until the first tremors had passed, then spoke, trying to keep his voice calm. "You're disturbed, Larkwell. You don't know what you're doing." "No? You think not?" Crag bit his lip vexedly. He spoke again: "So, you're our saboteur?" "Call me that, if you wish." "And a damned traitor!"