After chow the men took turns shaving with the single razor. It had been supplied only because of the need to keep the oxygen ports in the helmets free and to keep the lip mikes clear. "Pure luxury," Prochaska said when his turn came. "Nothing's too good for the spaceman." "Amen," Crag agreed. "I hope the next crew is going to get a bar of soap." "For their sake I hope they pick something better than this crummy planet," Larkwell grunted. * * * * * Drone Baker had entered the moon's gravisphere at the precise time spelled out by the earth computers. Its speed had dropped to a mere two hundred miles per hour. It began to accelerate, pulled by the moon, moving in a vast trajectory calculated to put it into a closing orbit around the barren satellite. Prochaska picked it up and followed it on the scope. Telemeter control from Alpine fired the first braking rockets. The blast countered the moon's pull. Drone Baker was still a speck on the scope--a solitary traveler rushing toward them through the void. "Seems incredible it took us that long," Crag mused, studying the instrument panel. He reached over and activated the analog. Back on earth saucers with faces lifted to the skies were tracking the drone's flight. Their information was channeled into computer batteries, integrated, analyzed, and sent back into space. The wave train ended in a gridded scope--the analog Crag was viewing. "Seemed a damned lot shorter when we were up there," he speculated aloud. "That's one experience that really telescopes time," the Chief agreed. "I'd hate to have to sweat it out again." "When do we take over?" Prochaska glanced at the master chrono. "Not till 0810, give or take a few minutes. It depends on the final computations from Alpine." "Better catch some sleep," Crag suggested. "It's going to be touchy once we get hold of it." "We'll be damn lucky if we get it down in Arzachel." "We'd better." Crag grinned. "Muff this and we might as well take out lunar citizenship." "No thanks. Not interested." "What's the matter, Max, no pioneer spirit?" "Go to hell," Prochaska answered amiably. "Now, Mr. Prochaska, that's no way to speak to your commanding officer," Crag reproved with mock severity. "Okay. Go to hell, Sir," he joked. Richter was a problem. Someone had to be awake at all times. Crag decided to break the crew into watches, and laid out a tentative schedule. He would take the first watch, Larkwell would relieve him at midnight, and Nagel would take over at 0300. That way Prochaska would get a full night's sleep. He would need steady nerves come morning. He outlined the schedule to the crew. Neither Larkwell nor Nagel appeared enthusiastic over the prospect of initiating a watch regime, but neither protested openly.