Prochaska looked worriedly out the side port. Crag followed his eyes. Small details on the plain of Arzachel loomed large--pits, cracks, low ridges of rock. Suddenly the plain was an appalling reality. Rocky fingers reached to grip them. He twisted his head until he caught sight of Bandit. It was moving down, tail first, but it was still high in the sky. Too high, he thought. He took a fast look at the radar altimeter and punched the full battery of braking rockets again. The force on his body seemed unbearable. Blood was forced into his head, blurring his vision. His ears buzzed and his spine seemed to be supporting some gigantic weight. The pressure eased and the ground began moving up more slowly. The rockets were blasting steadily. For a split-second the ship seemed to hang in mid-air followed by a violent shock. The cabin teetered, then smashed onto the plain, swaying as the framework projecting from the tail crumpled. The shock drove them hard into their seats. They sat for a moment before full realization dawned. They were down--alive! Crag and Prochaska simultaneously began shucking their safety belts. Crag was first. He sprang to the side port just in time to see the last seconds of Bandit's landing. It came down fast, a perpendicular needle stabbing toward the lunar surface. Flame spewed from its braking rockets; white smoke enveloped its nose. Fast ... too fast, he thought. Suddenly the flame licked out. Fuel error. The thought flashed through his mind. The fuel Bandit had wasted in space maneuvering to destroy the drone had left it short. The rocket seemed to hang in the sky for a scant second before it plummeted straight down, smashing into the stark lunar landscape. The Chief had reached his side just in time to witness the crash. "That's all for them," he said. "Can't say I'm sorry." "Serves 'em damn well right," growled Crag. He became conscious of Nagel and Larkwell crowding to get a look and obligingly moved to one side without taking his eyes from the scene. He tried to judge Bandit's distance. "Little over two miles," he estimated aloud. "You can't tell in this vacuum," Prochaska advised. "Your eyes play you tricks. Wait'll I try the scope." A moment later he turned admiringly from the instrument. "Closer to three miles. Pretty good for a green hand." Crag laughed, a quiet laugh of self-satisfaction, and said, "I could use a little elbow room. Any volunteers?" "Liberty call," Prochaska sang out. "All ashore who's going ashore. The gals are waiting." "I'm a little tired of this sardine can, myself," Larkwell put in. "Let's get on our Sunday duds and blow. I'd like to do the town." There was a murmur of assent. Nagel, who was monitoring the oxygen pressure gauge, spoke affirmatively. "No leaks." "Good," Crag said with relief. He took a moment off to feel exultant but the mood quickly vanished. There was work ahead--sheer drudgery. "Check suit pressure," he ordered.