Boris Vernadsky bent over his gas-analyzer interminably, a symphony in loud clothes and soft grunts.
“We’re about at sea level, I should judge,” he said, “going by the value of g. ”
Then, because he was explaining himself to the rest of the group, he added negligently, “The gravitational constant, that is,” which didn’t help most of them.
He said, “The atmospheric pressure is just about eight hundred millimeters of mercury which is about five per cent higher than on Earth. And two hundred forty millimeters of that is oxygen as compared to only one hundred fifty on Earth. Not bad.”
He seemed to be waiting for approval, but scientists found it best to comment, as little as possible on data in another man’s specialty.
He went on, “Nitrogen, of course. Dull, isn’t it, the way Nature repeats itself like a three-year-old who knows three lessons, period. Takes the fun away when it turns out that a water world always has an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Makes the whole thing yawn-worthy.”
“What else in the atmosphere?” asked Cimon, irritably. “So far all we have is oxygen, nitrogen, and homely philosophy from kindly Uncle Boris.”
Vernadsky hooked his arm over his seat and said, amiably enough. “What are you? Director or something?”
Cimon, to whom the directorship meant little more than the annoyance of preparing composite reports for the Bureau flushed and said, grimly, “What else in the atmosphere, Dr. Vernadsky?”
Vernadsky said, without looking at his notes, “Under one per cent and over a hundredth of one per cent: hydrogen, helium, and carbon dioxide in that order. Under a hundredth of one per cent and over a ten thousandt h of one per cent: methane, argon, and neon in that order. Under a ten thousandth of one per cent and over a millionth of a per cent : radon, krypton, and xenon in that order.