"Amen." Larkwell gave a weak experimental jump and promptly smacked his head against the low overhead. He was smiling foolishly when Nagel snapped at him: "One more of those and you'll be walking around the moon without a pressure suit." He peevishly insisted on examining the top of the helmet for damage. Crag fervently hoped they wouldn't need the suits for landing. Any damage that would allow the Aztec's oxygen to escape would in itself be a death sentence, even though death might be dragged over the long period of time it would take to die for lack of food. An intact space cabin represented the only haven in which they could escape from the cumbersome garments long enough to tend their biological needs. Imperceptibly the sensation of weight returned, but it was not the body weight of earth. Even on the moon's surface they would weigh but one-sixth their normal weight. "Skipper, look." Prochaska's startled exclamation drew Crag's eyes to the radarscope. Bandit had made minute corrections in its course. "They're using steering rockets," Crag mused, trying to assess its meaning. "Doesn't make sense," said Prochaska. "They can't have that kind of power to spare. They'll need every bit they have for landing." "What's up?" Larkwell peered over their shoulders, eyeing the radarscope. Crag bit off an angry retort. Larkwell sensed the rebuff and returned away. They kept their eyes glued to the scope. Bandit maneuvered to a position slightly behind and to one side of the silver drone. Crag looked out the side port. Bandit was clearly visible, a monstrous cylinder boring through the void with cold precision. There was something ominous about it. He felt the hair prickle at the nape of his neck. Larkwell moved alongside him. Bandit made another minute correction. White vapor shot from its tail and it began to move ahead. "Using rocket power," Crag grunted. "Damn if I can figure that one out." "Looks crazy to me. I should think--" Prochaska's voice froze. A minute pip broke off from Bandit, boring through space toward the silver drone. "Warhead!" Crag roared the word with cold anger. Prochaska cursed softly. One second Drone Able was there, riding serenely through space. The next it disintegrated, blasted apart by internal explosions. Seconds later only fragments of the drone were visible. Prochaska stared at Crag, his face bleak. Crag's brain reeled. He mentally examined what had happened, culling his thoughts until one cold fact remained. "Mistaken identity," he said softly. "They thought it was the Aztec." "Now what?" "Now we hope they haven't any more warheads." Crag mulled the possibility. "Considering weight factors, I'd guess they haven't. Besides, there's no profit in wasting a warhead on a drone." "We hope." Prochaska studied Bandit through the port, and licked his lips nervously. "Think we ought to contact Alpine?"