"Too late, Commander." It was Richter's voice. "His suit's deflated. Must have been a meteorite strike."
"Stay there," Crag ordered. "Larkwell...?"
"I'm backtracking too...."
They were all there when he arrived, gathered around Prochaska's huddled form. The yellow lights of their torches pinned his body against the ashy plain. Larkwell, on his knees, was running his hands over the electronic chief's body. Crag dropped to his side.
"Here it is!"
Larkwell's fingers had found the hole, a tiny rip just under the shoulder. Crag examined it, conscious that something was wrong. It didn't look like the kind of hole a meteorite would make. It looked, he thought, like, a small rip. The kind of a rip a knife point might make. He stared up at Larkwell. The construction boss's eyes met his and he nodded his head affirmatively. Crag got to his feet and faced the German.
"Where were you when this happened?"
"Ahead of him," Richter answered. "We were strung out. I think I was next in line behind you."
Larkwell said softly: "You got here before I did. That would put you behind me."
"I was ahead of you when we started." The German contemplated Larkwell calmly. "I didn't see you pass me."