Red Dog was a bare half-mile away--a clear level half-mile from the tip of Backbone Ridge. That's how close the sniper had come to living. He mulled the thought with a momentary surge of hope. Red Dog? Why not? If he could shoot his way into the space cabin he'd live ... live. The thought galvanized him to action. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the slope heedless of the danger of ripping his suit. He could make it. He had to make it! He gained the bottom and paused to catch his breath before starting toward the rocket. A glance at his oxygen meter told him that the race was futile. Still, he forced his legs into a run, threading through the rocks toward the floor of the crater. He reached the tip of the crescent panting heavily and plunged across the level floor of the plain. His legs were leaden, his lungs burned and sweat filled his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. Still he ran. The rocket rose from the crater floor, growing larger, larger. He tried to keep in a straight path, aware that he was moving in a crazy zigzag course. The rocket loomed bigger ... bigger. It appeared immense. Caution, he told himself, there's an hombre up there with a rifle. He halted, feeling his body weave, and tried to steady himself. High up in the nose of Red Dog the hatch was a dancing black shadow--black with movement. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and moved the control to full automatic, falling to his knees as he did so. Strange, the ashy floor of the crater was erupting in small fountains just to his side. Danger, he thought, take cover. The warning bells were still ringing in his brain as he slid forward on his stomach and tried to steady his weapon. Dust spurted across his face plate. The black rectangle of the hatch danced crazily in his sights. He pulled back on the trigger, feeling the heavy weapon buck against his shoulder, firing until the clip was empty. His fingers hurriedly searched his belt for the spare clips. Gone. Somehow he'd lost them. He'd have to rush the rocket. He got to his feet, weaving dizzily, and forced his legs to move. Once or twice he fell, regaining his feet with difficulty. He heard a voice. It took him a minute to realize it was his own. He was babbling to Prochaska, trying to tell him ...