"You're in trouble." Gotch spoke like a man carefully choosing his words. "Intelligence informs us that another rocket's been fired from east of the Caspian. BuNav's got a track on it."

Crag waited.

"There are two possibilities," Gotch continued. "The first and most logical assumption is that it's manned. We surmise that from the fact that their first manned rocket was successful—that is, as far as reaching the moon is concerned. The assumption is further borne out by its trajectory and rate of acceleration." His voice fell off.

"And the second possibility?" Crag prompted.

"Warhead," Gotch said succinctly. "Intelligence informs us that the enemy is prepared to blow Arzachel off the face of the moon if they fail to take it over. And they have failed—so far." Crag tossed the idea around in his mind.

He said fretfully, "I doubt if they could put a warhead down on Arzachel. That takes some doing. Hell, it's tough enough to monitor one in from here, let alone smack from earth."

"I think you're right, but they can try." Gotch's voice became brisk. "Here's the dope as we see it. We think the rocket contains a landing party for the purpose of establishing a moon base. In Arzachel, naturally, because that's where the lode is."

"More to the point, you expect an attack on Pickering Base," Crag interjected.

"Well, yes, I think that is a reasonable assumption...."

Crag weighed the information. Gotch was probably right. A nuclear explosion on the moon would be detected on earth. That was the dangerous course—the shot that could usher in World War III and perhaps a new cave era.

Attack by a landing party seemed more logical. They batted ideas back and forth. The Colonel suggested that just before the landing phase of Red Dog—the code name assigned the new rocket—Crag post armed guards at some point covering the Aztec.

"Might as well get some use out of Bandit's automatic weapons," Gotch dryly concluded.

Crag disagreed. He didn't think it likely that any attack would take the form of a simple armed assault. "That would give us time to get off a message," he argued. "They can't afford that."

Gotch pointed out that neither could they launch a missile while still in space. "A homing weapon couldn't differentiate between Aztec, Baker and Bandit," he said.

"But they'd still have to have some sure fire quick-kill method," Crag insisted.

"You may be right. Have you a better plan?"

Crag did, and outlined it in some detail. Gotch listened without comment until he had finished.

"Could work," he said finally. "However, it's going to shoot your schedule, even if you could do it."

"Why can't we?"

"You're not supermen, Commander," he said tersely. "The psychiatrists here inform us that your crew—as individuals—should be near the breaking point. We know the cumulative strain. To be truthful with you, we've been getting gray hair over that prospect."

"Nuts to the psychiatrists," Crag declared with a certainty he didn't feel. "Men don't break when their survival depends on their sanity."

"No?" The single word came across the void, soft and low.

"We can do it," Crag persisted.

"All right, I agree with the plan. I think you're wrong but you're the Commander in the field." His voice was flat. "Good luck." He cut off abruptly.

Crag looked at the silent panel for a moment. Another problem, another solution required. Maybe Gotch was right. Maybe they'd all wind up as candidates for the laughing academy—if they lived long enough. The thought didn't cheer him. Well, he'd better get moving. There was a lot to be done. He looked up and saw the question in Prochaska's eyes. Might as well tell him, he thought.

He repeated the information Gotch had given, together with his plan. Prochaska listened quietly, nodding from time to time. When he finished, they discussed the pros and cons of Crag's proposed course of action. Prochaska thought it would work. In the end they decided to pursue the plan without telling the others the full story. It might be the breaking point, especially for Nagel, and they would be needing a good oxygen man in the coming days. Crag got on the interphone and called Larkwell, who was working in the tail section with the others.

"Judging from what you've seen of Bandit, how long would it take to make it livable as crew quarters?"

"Why?" he asked querulously.

"I haven't time to go into that now," Crag said evenly. "Just give me your best estimate."

"You can't make it livable. It's hot."

"Not that hot. You've just got the radiation creeps. Let's have the estimate."

Larkwell considered a moment. "There's quite a weld job on the hull, assuming we could get the necessary patch metal from Bandit. We'd have to haul one helluva lot of gear across that damned desert—"

"How long?" Crag cut in.

"Well, three days, at least. But that's a minimum figure."

"That's the figure you'll have to meet," Crag promised grimly. "Start now. Use Nagel and Richter. Load up the gear you'll need and get in a trip before chow."

"Now?" Larkwell's voice was incredulous. "What about winding up this job first? The airlock is damned important."

"Drop it," Crag said briefly. There was silence at the other end of the interphone.

"Okay," the construction boss grumbled finally.

Crag suggested that Prochaska make the first trip with them to look over Bandit's electronic gear. He would need to know what repairs and modifications would be necessary to make it usable. The Chief was delighted. It would mark the first time he'd been out of the space cabin since the day of their landing.

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.

He was watching them now—the evening of the last day of Larkwell's three-day estimate—returning from the Bandit. The four figures were strung out over half a mile. He regarded that as a bad omen. They no longer worked as a crew, but as separate individuals, each in his separate world, with exception of Prochaska. He turned away from the port with the familiar feeling that time was running out, and mentally reviewed what remained to be done.

Making Bandit habitable was a must. There still remained the arduous task of transferring their belongings and gear to Bandit. Drone Baker had to be toppled and her cargo salvaged. Then there was Drone Charlie, at present just a minute speck somewhere in the great void between earth and her moon; but in somewhat less than forty-eight hours it would represent tons of metal hurtling over the rim of Arzachel. This time they couldn't fumble the ball. The building of the airlock in the rill loomed in the immediate future—an oppressive shadow that caused him no end of worry. There were other problems, too—like the item of Red Dog ... the possible battle for control of the moon.

Red Dog, in particular, had become the prime shadow darkening Arzachel's ashy plains. He thought about the emotional deterioration which had laid an iron grip over the expedition and wondered if they could hang on through the rough days ahead. All in all, the task of colonizing the moon appeared an extremely formidable one. He shook off his apprehensions and began planning his next step.

That evening Crag knocked off the usual three hour work period following evening chow. Nagel tumbled onto his pad and was asleep almost instantly. His breathing was a harsh rasp. At Crag's suggestion Prochaska took the watch until midnight. Crag stood guard the remainder of the night to allow Nagel and Larkwell a full night's rest.

While the others slept, Crag brooded at the port. Once he ran his hand over his face, surprised at the hardness. All bone and no flesh, he thought. He looked toward the north wall of Arzachel.

In a few short hours Drone Charlie would come blazing over the rim, and Red Dog snapping at its heels.