Trouble on Tycho

Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared.
Report ready, Jones?
Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right, though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on this dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—
Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all.
That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?
It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. of Obs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : Max Freq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing.
Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking.