"Max Prochaska was a real well-liked boy," Mrs. Arthur Bingham said firmly, "friendly with everyone in town. Of course, Vista was just a small place then," she added reminiscently. "Not like now, especially since the helicopter factory moved in. I do declare, a soul wouldn't recognize the place any longer, with all the housing tracts and the new supermarket—"

"Certainly," the agent interjected, "but about Max Prochaska."

"Yes, of course." Mrs. Bingham bit her lip reflectively. "My husband always said Max would go places. I wish he could have lived to see it." For just a moment her eyes brimmed wetly, then she blew her nose, wiping them in the process. The agent waited until she had composed herself.

"Little Max—I always think of him as Little Max," she explained—"was smart and pleasant, real well liked at school. And he always attended church." She stressed the word always.

"Just think, now they say he's on the moon." Her eyes fixed the agent with interest "You'd think he'd get dizzy."

The agent almost enjoyed tracing Max Prochaska's history, it was a neat, wrapped-up job, one that moved through a regular sequence. Teacher ... minister ... family doctor ... druggist ... scoutmaster ... athletic director—all the ties a small-town boy makes and retains. Everything was clear-cut, compact. Records, deeds, acquaintances—all in one handy package. The memory of a man who grew up in a small town persisted, borne in the minds of people whose worlds were small. The Vista paper had obligingly carried Prochaska's biography, right on the front page, under the headline: VISTAN LANDS ON MOON. The leading local drugstore was featuring a Prochaska sundae and the Mayor of the town had proclaimed MAX PROCHASKA week.

Clearly, Vista was proud of its native son, but not nearly as proud as the elderly couple who still tended a chicken ranch on the outskirts of town.

"Max is a good boy," Mrs. Prochaska said simply. Her husband beamed agreement.

On the surface, Prochaska's record seemed clean—a good student, well-liked, the usual array of girls, and nothing much in the way of peccadillos you could hang a hat on. The agent's last view of the town was a sign at the city limits: VISTA—THE HOME OF MAX PROCHASKA.

Drone Baker looked a complete loss. It had smashed tail down onto the ash covered plain about four miles to the southeast of the Aztec, off the eastern lip of the curved crescent Prochaska had dubbed "Backbone Ridge."

Crag calculated that the positions of Bandit, the drone and their own rocket roughly formed an equilateral triangle on the floor of the crater. The lower section of the rocket was crushed, its hull split lengthwise.

Crag and Larkwell studied the scene from a small knoll. The drone lay in a comparatively level area about thirty feet from the edge of a deep fissure, careened at a steep angle from the vertical. Only its tail imbedded into the ground kept it from toppling.

"Might as well have a closer look," Larkwell said finally. Crag nodded and beckoned Richter, who was waiting at the bottom of the knoll. Since the sabotage incident he had split the crew into two sections which varied according to task. Richter was used by either section as needed. It wasn't an arrangement that Crag liked but he didn't feel it wise, or safe, to allow anyone the privilege of privacy.

Richter circled the base of the knoll and met them. When they reached the rocket, Larkwell circled it several times, studying it from all angles.

"We might come out pretty well," he said finally. His voice carried a dubious note. He lifted his head and contemplated the rocket again. "Maybe some of the cargo rode through."

"We hope," Crag said.

"I wouldn't bank too much on it."

"Think we might get inside?"

Larkwell said decisively: "Not this boy. Not until we pull the nose down. This baby's ready to topple."

They were discussing their next move when Prochaska came in on the interphone: "Alpine wants the dope on Baker."

Damn Alpine, Crag thought moodily. He contemplated the rocket. "Tell 'em it's still here." All at once he felt depressed. Strain, he told himself. Since blast-off his life had been a succession of climaxes, each a little rougher than the one preceding. Not that he was alone in his reactions. His mind switched to Nagel. The oxygen man had become sullen, irritable, almost completely withdrawn from the group. He was, Crag thought, a lonely, miserable man. Even Larkwell was beginning to show the affects of their struggle to survive. His normal easygoing manner was broken by periods of surliness. Only Prochaska had managed to maintain his calm approach to life, but the effects were telling physically. His face was a mask of parchment drawn tightly over bone, accentuating his tired hollow eyes.

But Richter seemed to be thriving. Why not? He was a doomed man given a fresh reprieve on life, with no responsibilities to burden his existence. He was on a gravy train for the time being. Still, Richter was in an unenviable spot. Nagel was openly hostile toward him. His demeanor and looks were calculated to tell the German he was an undesirable intruder. Larkwell's attitude was one of avoidance. He simply acted as if the German were not on the moon. When in the course of work it became necessary to give Richter an order, he did it with a short surly bark. Prochaska concealed whatever feeling he had toward the German. No, he thought, Richter's lot wasn't easy.

He tried to push the mood aside. It wouldn't push. He checked his oxygen, and decided to swing over to Bandit before returning. The sooner they got started on the salvage job, the better. He communicated his plan to the others.

Larkwell protested, "Getting ready to open this baby's more important. We'll never get started on the airlock fooling around this god forsaken desert."

"Well get to that, too," Crag promised, fighting to keep his temper under control. "By going from here we'll save a couple of miles over having to make a special trip."

"Suit yourself," the construction boss said truculently.

Crag nodded stiffly and started toward the enemy rocket, now lost to view behind intervening rock formations. By unspoken agreement Larkwell fell in at the rear, leaving Richter sandwiched between them. The German lived constantly under the scrutiny of one or another of the crew. Crag intended to keep it that way.

The trip was more difficult than he had anticipated. Twice they were forced to detour around deep fissures. Before they had gone very far Crag's radiation counter came to life. He made a note of the spot thinking that later they would map the boundaries of the radioactive area. Once or twice he checked his course with Prochaska. His oxygen meter told him they would have to hurry when they topped a low knoll of glazed rock and came upon the ship.

He stopped and turned, watching Richter. If he had expected any show of emotion he was disappointed. His face was impassive. It gave Crag the feeling that he wasn't really seeing the rocket—that he was looking far beyond, into nothingness. His eyes behind the face plate were vacuous pools.

"We didn't have time to bury your companions," Crag said matter-of-factly. He indicated the rocket with a motion of his head and his voice turned cruel:

"They're still in there."

Richter's expression remained unchanged. "It doesn't make much difference here," he said finally. He turned and faced Crag.

"One thing you should understand. They," he swept his arm toward Bandit, "were the military."

"And you?"

Richter said stiffly: "I am a scientist."

"Who destroyed our drone thinking it was us." They faced each other across the bleak lunar desert. The German's eyes had become blue fires—azure coals leaping into flame.

"It makes no difference what you think," he said after a moment. "My conscience is clear."

"Nuts." Larkwell spat the word with disgust. Richter shrugged and turned back toward the rocket. Crag looked at him with varying emotions. One thing was sure, he thought. Richter was a cool customer. He had seen new depths in his blue eyes when they had faced each other. They were hard eyes, ablaze with ice ... the eyes of a fanatic—or a saint. He pushed the thought aside.

Prochaska came in on the phones to inquire about their oxygen. Crag checked, chagrined to find that it was too low to spend more than a few minutes at the rocket. He opened the arms locker, thinking he would have to get rid of the weapons. They could be dangerous in the wrong hands. He had been unable to carry them back the first trip. Then he had regarded them as something totally useless on the moon. Now he wasn't so sure.

He hurriedly studied the space cabin, seeking the information Gotch had requested. The floor and walls were heavily padded with some foam material—standard procedure to absorb vibration and attenuate noise. Aside from the controls, there were no projecting metal surfaces or hard corners ... the view ports were larger ... acceleration pads smaller, thicker. All in all, the cabins of the two rockets were quite similar. He was examining the contents of the supply cabinets when Larkwell reminded him of their diminishing oxygen supply. They hurriedly plundered Bandit of six oxygen cylinders and started back across Arzachel's desolate plain.

Crag arbitrarily broke the lunar day into twenty-four hour periods to correspond with earth time. Twelve hours were considered as "day," the remaining time as "night." He set up regular communication periods in order to schedule their activities. Under the arrangement Alpine came in promptly at exactly a half-hour before breakfast—0500 by earth clock—and again following the evening meal. Prochaska monitored the channel during the workday to cover possible urgent messages. The schedule allowed a twelve-hour work period during the day and a three-hour work period following the evening meal, from 7:00 to 10:00. The communication periods quickly deteriorated into routine sessions—a good omen to Crag—but Gotch kept his finger in the pie. Crag had the satisfaction of knowing he was available around the clock. Consequently, when the communicator came to life midway through the regular twelve-hour work period, he knew something was brewing—something he wasn't going to like. So did Prochaska. His voice, when he called Crag to the communicator, spelled trouble.

Crag used the ear microphones for privacy and acknowledged the call with a distinct feeling of unease. As he had expected, the caller was Gotch.

"Drone Charlie was launched at 0600," he told Crag. "We'll feed you the data on the regular channels." There was a brief silence. "This one's got to make it," he added significantly.

Crag said stonily: "We'll do our best."

"I know you will, Commander. I have absolutely no fear on that score. How's everything going?" The twangy voice across the abyss of space took on a solicitous tone that set his nerves on edge. Something's wrong—something bad, he thought. The Colonel sounded like a doctor asking a dying patient how he felt.

"Okay, everything seems in hand. We've got the ship in good shape and Larkwell thinks we might fare pretty well with the drone. It might be in better shape than we first thought."

"Good, good, glad to hear it. We need a silver lining once in a while, eh?"

"Yeah, but I'm fairly certain you didn't call just to cheer me up," Crag said dryly. "What's on your mind?" The silence came again, a little longer this time.