Crag watched them leave through the port. It was impossible to tell the crew members apart in their bulky garments. The extra oxygen and the tools Larkwell had selected gave them an odd shambling gait, despite the low gravity. They plodded in single file, winding slowly across the plain. The thought struck him that they resembled grotesque life forms from some alien planet. For just a moment he felt sorry, and a trifle guilty, over assigning Nagel to the trip. The oxygen man was already in a state of perpetual fatigue. Still, he couldn't allow anyone the luxury of rest. Work was in the cards--grueling, slavish toil if they were to survive. It struck Crag that this was a moment of great risk. Of the four figures plodding toward Bandit, one was an enemy ... one a saboteur. Yet, what could either accomplish by striking now? Nothing! _Not while I live_, he thought. Strangely enough, Richter bothered him more than the saboteur. There was a quality about the man he couldn't decipher, an armor he couldn't penetrate. It occurred to him that, outwardly at least, Richter was much like Prochaska--quiet, calm, steady. He performed the tasks assigned him without question ... evinced no hostility, no resentment. He was seemingly oblivious to Nagel's barbs and Larkwell's occasional surly rebuffs. On the face of the record he was an asset--a work horse who performed far more labor than Nagel. He decided he couldn't write the German off as a factor to be continually weighed--weighed and watched. He was no ordinary man. Of that he was sure. Richter's presence on the enemy's first moon rocket was ample testimony of his stature. What were his thoughts? His plans? What fires burned behind his placid countenance? Crag wished he knew. One thing was certain. He could never lower his guard. Not for a second. He sighed and turned away from the viewport. A lot of data had piled up. He'd give Alpine a little work to do to get Gotch off his neck. He reached for the communicator thinking of Ann. Probably got someone else lined up by now, he thought sourly. * * * * * Work on Bandit progressed slowly. Nagel dragged through each successive work shift on the verge of exhaustion. Crag expected him to collapse momentarily. His disintegration took him further and further from the group. He ate silently, with eyes averted. He didn't protest the arduous hours, but the amount of work he performed was negligible. Larkwell maintained his stamina but had become more quiet in the process. He seldom smiled ... never joked. Occasionally he was truculent or derisive, referring to Bandit as the "Commander's hot box." Richter remained impersonal and aloof, but performed his assigned tasks without apparent resentment. Crag noticed that he stayed as far from Larkwell as possible, perhaps fearing violence from the burly construction boss. Prochaska, alone, maintained a cheerful exterior--for which Crag was thankful.