He tried to push the mood aside. It wouldn't push. He checked his oxygen, and decided to swing over to Bandit before returning. The sooner they got started on the salvage job, the better. He communicated his plan to the others.
Larkwell protested, "Getting ready to open this baby's more important. We'll never get started on the airlock fooling around this god forsaken desert."
"Well get to that, too," Crag promised, fighting to keep his temper under control. "By going from here we'll save a couple of miles over having to make a special trip."
"Suit yourself," the construction boss said truculently.
Crag nodded stiffly and started toward the enemy rocket, now lost to view behind intervening rock formations. By unspoken agreement Larkwell fell in at the rear, leaving Richter sandwiched between them. The German lived constantly under the scrutiny of one or another of the crew. Crag intended to keep it that way.
The trip was more difficult than he had anticipated. Twice they were forced to detour around deep fissures. Before they had gone very far Crag's radiation counter came to life. He made a note of the spot thinking that later they would map the boundaries of the radioactive area. Once or twice he checked his course with Prochaska. His oxygen meter told him they would have to hurry when they topped a low knoll of glazed rock and came upon the ship.
He stopped and turned, watching Richter. If he had expected any show of emotion he was disappointed. His face was impassive. It gave Crag the feeling that he wasn't really seeing the rocket—that he was looking far beyond, into nothingness. His eyes behind the face plate were vacuous pools.
"We didn't have time to bury your companions," Crag said matter-of-factly. He indicated the rocket with a motion of his head and his voice turned cruel:
"They're still in there."
Richter's expression remained unchanged. "It doesn't make much difference here," he said finally. He turned and faced Crag.