"Not a bad way to go," he managed to say. "Nice and easy."
"The only place you're going is Red Dog."
"I'll be okay in a minute."
"Sure you will."
Richter struggled to his feet breathing deeply. "I'm okay."
"We'd better get some more oxygen—enough to last through the fireworks," Crag suggested.
They returned to the drone and procured eight cylinders, lowering them with a piece of line supplied for the purpose. They climbed down to the plain, packed the cylinders and started for Red Dog.
"Going to be close but we'll make it," Crag said, thinking of the warhead.
Richter answered confidently: "We'll make it."
Strange, Crag thought, I wind up fighting with the enemy to keep one of my own crew from murdering me. Enemy? No, he could no longer brand Richter an enemy. He felt a pang of regret over the way he'd mistrusted him. Still, there had been no other course. A thought jolted him. He spoke casually, aware he might be stepping on Richter's toes: "There's one thing I don't understand...."