Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it. "Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.