Crag snapped wrathfully: "This is no time to be joking. Toss that ladder down and make it quick." The silence mocked him for a long moment before Larkwell answered.
"I'm not joking, Mister Crag." He emphasized the word Mister. "There is no Larkwell. At least, not here."
A fearful premonition came to Crag. He turned toward Richter. The German hadn't moved. He touched his arm and began edging back until he was well clear of the base of the rocket. Nagel stood off to one side, seeming helpless and forlorn in the drama being enacted. Crag marshaled his thoughts.
"Larkwell?"
"My name is Malin ... if it interest you, Mister Crag. Igor Malin." The words were spoken in a jeer.
Crag felt the anger well inside him. All the pent-up emotion he had suppressed since leaving earth boiled volcanically until his body shook like a leaf. The scar on his face tingled, burned, and he involuntarily reached to rub it before remembering his helmet. He waited until the first tremors had passed, then spoke, trying to keep his voice calm.
"You're disturbed, Larkwell. You don't know what you're doing."
"No? You think not?"
Crag bit his lip vexedly. He spoke again:
"So, you're our saboteur?"