"No wind, no air, no external forces to disturb the ash mantle, except for meteorites. Any strike would leave a trace. We might smooth off a given area and check for hits after a couple of days. That would give some idea of the danger." He faced Prochaska. "What do you think?" "But the ash itself is meteorite dust," he protested. "We could at least chart the big hits--those large enough to damage the rocket." "We'll know if any hit," Larkwell prophesied grimly. "Maybe not;" Nagel cut in. "Supposing it's pinhole size? The air could seep out and we wouldn't know it until too late." Crag said decisively. "That means we'll have to maintain a watch over the pressure gauge." "That won't help if it's a big chunk." Prochaska scraped his toe through the ash. "The possibility's sort of disconcerting." "Too damned many occupational hazards for me," Larkwell ventured. "I must have had rocks in my head when I volunteered for this one." "All brawn and no brain." Crag gave a wry smile. "That's the kind of fodder that's needed for deep space." Prochaska said, "We ought to let Gotch know he's just acquired a few more acres." "Right." Crag hesitated a moment. "Then we'll check out on Bandit." "Why?" Larkwell asked. "There might be some survivors." "Let them rot," Nagel growled. "That's for me to decide," Crag said coldly. He stared hard at the oxygen man. "We're still human." Nagel snapped, "They're damned murderers." "That's no reason we should be." Crag turned back toward the ladder. When he reached it, he paused and looked skyward. The sun was a precise circle of intolerable white light set amid the ebony of space. The stars seemed very close. The space cabin was a vacuum. At Nagel's suggestion they kept pressure to a minimum to preserve oxygen. When they were out of their suits, Prochaska got on the radio. He had difficulty raising Alpine Base, working for several minutes before he got an answering signal. When the connection was made, Crag moved into Prochaska's place and switched to his ear insert microphone. He listened to the faint slightly metallic voice for a moment before he identified it as Gotch's. He thought: _The Old Man must be living in the radio shack._ He adjusted his headset and sent a lengthy report. If Gotch were jubilant over the fruition of his dream, he carefully concealed it. He congratulated Crag and the crew, speaking in precise formal terms, and almost immediately launched into a barrage of questions regarding their next step. The Colonel's reaction nettled him. Lord, he should be jubilant ... jumping with joy ... waltzing the telephone gal. Instead he was speaking with a business-as-usual manner. Gotch left it up to Crag on whether or not to attempt a rescue expedition. "But not if it endangers the expedition in any way," he added. He informed him that Drone Baker had been launched without mishap. "Just be ready for her," he cautioned. "And again--congratulations, Commander." There was a pause....