Crag's thoughts came in a jumbled train. Had Larkwell been hit by a meteorite? No, they would have seen him fall.
"Must have drawn ahead," Richter observed quietly. There was something in his voice that disturbed Crag.
"Why doesn't he answer?" Nagel cut in. "Why? why?"
"Larkwell! Larkwell, answer me!" Silence. A great silence. A suspicion struck his mind. Crag caught his breath, horrified at the thought.
"Let's get moving—fast." He struck out in the direction of Bandit, forcing his tired legs into a trot. His boots struck against the plain, shooting needles of pain up his legs. His body grew sweaty and clammy, hot and cold by turn. A chill foreboding gripped him. He tried to light the way with his torch. The rocks made elusive shadows—shadows that danced, receded, grew and shortened by turn, until he couldn't discriminate between shadow and rock. He stumbled—fell heavily—holding his breath fearfully until he was re-assured his suit hadn't ripped. After that he slowed his pace, moving more carefully. His torch was a yellow eye preceding him across the plain.
Bandit rose before him, jutting against the stars, an ominous black shadow. He moved his light, playing it over the plain. Larkwell—where was Larkwell? The yellow beam caressed the rocket, wandering over its base.
Something was wrong—dreadfully wrong. It took him an instant to realize that the rope ladder had vanished. He swung the torch upward. Its yellow beams framed Larkwell's body against the hatch.
"Larkwell." Crag called imperiously.
The figure in the hatch didn't move. Richter came up and stood beside him. Crag cast a helpless glance at him. The German was silent, motionless, his face turned upward toward the space cabin as if he were lost in contemplation. Crag called again, anger in his voice. There was a moment of silence before a voice tinkled in his earphones.
"Larkwell? There's no Larkwell here." The words were spoken slowly, tauntingly.