"We'll be damn lucky if we get it down in Arzachel."
"We'd better." Crag grinned. "Muff this and we might as well take out lunar citizenship."
"No thanks. Not interested."
"What's the matter, Max, no pioneer spirit?"
"Go to hell," Prochaska answered amiably.
"Now, Mr. Prochaska, that's no way to speak to your commanding officer," Crag reproved with mock severity.
"Okay. Go to hell, Sir," he joked.
Richter was a problem. Someone had to be awake at all times. Crag decided to break the crew into watches, and laid out a tentative schedule. He would take the first watch, Larkwell would relieve him at midnight, and Nagel would take over at 0300. That way Prochaska would get a full night's sleep. He would need steady nerves come morning. He outlined the schedule to the crew. Neither Larkwell nor Nagel appeared enthusiastic over the prospect of initiating a watch regime, but neither protested openly.
When the others were asleep, Crag cut off the light to preserve battery power. He studied the lunar landscape out the port, thinking it must be the bleakest spot in the universe. He twisted his head and looked starward. The sky was a grab bag of suns. Off to one side giant Orion looked across the gulf of space at Taurus and the Pleiades, the seven daughters of Atlas.