In short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point of telling him to shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He was moving slowly, stooped under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders. He appeared somewhat like an ungainly robot, moving with mechanical steps--the movements of a machine rather than a man. Crag kept his eyes on him. Nagel never faltered, never changed pace. His figure grew steadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray ash. Crag suddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked the strength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added to his despair. They met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash and squirmed to straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure in the stretcher, then at Crag. "Doesn't make much sense to me," he said critically. "Where are we going to get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?" "That's my worry," Crag snapped shortly. "Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen man." Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was none. Nagel was merely stating a fact--an honest worry. His temper was subsiding when Larkwell spoke. "He's right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill. Hell, we've got worries enough without...." "Knock it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence during which the others looked defiantly at him. "Stop the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He felt on the verge of an explosion, wanted to lash out. Take it easy, he told himself. With fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier. Prochaska was waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to the safety of the space cabin. When it was pressurized they removed their suits and Crag began to strip the heavy space garments from the injured man's body. He finished and stepped back, letting him lie on the deck. They stood in a tight half-circle, silently studying the inert figure. It was that of an extremely short man, about five feet, Crag judged, and thin. A thinness without emaciation. His face was pale, haggard and, like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He appeared in his late thirties or early forties but Crag surmised he was much younger. His chest rose and fell irregularly and his breathing was harsh. Crag knelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow, fast. "I don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries ... or just a bad concussion." "To hell with him," spat Larkwell. Prochaska said, "He'll either live or die. In either case there's not much we can do about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact. Crag nodded agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding over the possible complications of having an enemy in their midst when his nostrils caught a familiar whiff. He turned, startled. The Chief was holding a pot of coffee. "I did smuggle one small helping," he confessed.