Larkwell led the way with Crag bringing up the rear. They trudged slowly, tiredly, haunted by the shortness of time, yet they had pushed themselves to their limit. They simply couldn't move faster.
Strange, Crag thought, there's a rocket in the sky—a warhead, a nuclear bomb hurtling down from the vastness of space—slanting in on its target The target: Adam Crag and crew. If we survive this ... what next? The question haunted him. How much could they take? Specifically, how much could he take? He shook the mood off. He'd take what he had to take.
He thought: One more load and we'll hole up. The prospect of ending their toil perked up his spirits. During the time of the bomb they'd sleep—sleep. Sleep and eat and rest and sleep some more.
Halfway to Bandit he suddenly sensed something wrong. Richter's form, ahead, was a black shadow. Beyond him, Nagel was a blob of movement. He flicked his torch on, shooting its beams into the darkness beyond the oxygen man. Larkwell—there was no sign of Larkwell. He quickened his pace, weaving the light back and forth on both sides of their path.
"Larkwell?" His voice was imperative.
No answer.
"Larkwell?" Silence mocked him. Richter stopped short. Nagel turned, coming toward him in the night.
"Where's Larkwell?"
"He was ahead of me." It was Nagel.
Richter shrugged. "Can't see that far ahead."