It was dark. Not an ebony dark but one, rather, with the odd color of milky velvet. The earth was almost full, a gigantic globe whose reflected light washed out the brilliance of the stars and gave a milky sheen to Crater Arzachel. It was a light in which the eye detected form as if it were looking through a murky sea. It detected form but missed detail. Only the gross structures of the plain were visible: the blackness of the rocket reaching upward into the night; fantastic twisted rocks which blotted out segments of the stars; the black blobs of men moving in heavy space suits, dark shadows against the still darker night. The eery almost futile beams of the hand torches seemed worse than useless.
"All set." Larkwell's voice was grim. "Let her come."
Crag fastened his eyes on the nose of Red Dog, a tapered indistinct silhouette.
"Start letting out line at the count of three." There was a pause before Larkwell began the countdown.
"One ... two ... three...."
The nose moved, swinging slowly across the sky, then began falling.
"Slack off!"
The lines jerked, snapped taut, and the nose hung suspended in space, then began swinging to one side.
"Take up on your line, Richter." The sideward movement stopped, leaving the rocket canted at an angle of about forty-five degrees.
"Okay...." The nose moved down again, slower this time. Crag began to breathe easier. Suddenly the nose skidded to the rear, falling, then the rocket was a motionless blob on the plain.