"Looks like they expected good hunting," he observed.
"Yeah," Crag grimly agreed. He slammed the metal panel shut and looked distastefully at the unconscious man. "I've a damned good notion to leave him here."
"That's what I was thinking."
Crag debated, and finally shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we're elected as angels of mercy. Well, let's go."
"Yeah, Florence Nightingale Larkwell," the construction boss spat. He looped a line under the unconscious man's arms and rolled him to the brink of the opening.
"Ought to shove him out and let him bounce a while," he growled.
Crag didn't answer. He ran the other end of the line around a metal stanchion and signaled Larkwell to edge the inert figure through the hatch. Crag let the line out slowly until it became slack. Larkwell straightened up and leaned against the hatch combing with a foolish look on his face. Crag took one look at his gaping expression.
"Oxygen," he snapped. Larkwell looked blank. He seized the extra cylinder from his belt and hooked it into Larkwell's suit, turning the valve. Larkwell started to sway, and almost fell through the hatch combing before Crag managed to pull him to safety.
Within moments comprehension dawned on Larkwell's face. Crag quickly checked his own oxygen. It was low. Too low. The time they had lost taking the wrong route ... the time taken to open Bandit's hatch ... had upset Nagel's oxygen calculations. It was something else to remember in the future. He switched cylinders, then made a rapid calculation. It was evident they couldn't carry the injured man back with the amount of oxygen remaining. He got on the interphones and outlined the problem to Nagel.
"Try one of Bandit's cylinders," he suggested. "They just might fit."