“Humph.” The director of the Recovery Force looked a trifle disgruntled. “Did you have to get out at all?” Lackland thanked his stars that Rosten was a biochemist.
“I didn’t exactly have to, I suppose. I was getting tissue samples from a six hundred-foot whale stranded on the beach out there. I thought someone might — ”
“Did you bring them back?” snapped Rosten without letting Lackland finish.
“I did. Come down for them when you like — and have we another tank you could bring along?”
“We have. I’ll consider letting you have it when winter is over; I think you’ll be safer inside the dome until then. What did you preserve the specimens with?”
“Nothing special — hydrogen — the local air. I supposed that any of our regular preservatives would ruin them from your point of view. You’d better come for them fairly soon; Barlennan says that meat turns poisonous after a few hundred days, so I take it they have micro-organisms here.”
“Be funny if they hadn’t. Stand by; I’ll be down there in a couple of hours.” Rosten broke the connection without further comment about the wrecked tank, for which Lackland felt reasonably thankful. He went to bed, not having slept for nearly twenty-four hours.
He was awakened — partially — by the arrival of the rocket. Rosten had come down in person, which was not surprising. He did not even get out of his armor; he took the bottles, which Lackland had left in the air lock to minimize the chance of oxygen contamination, took a look at Lackland, realized his condition, and brusquely ordered him back to bed.
“This stuff was probably worth the tank,” he said briefly. “Now get some sleep. You have some more problems to solve-I’ll talk to you again when there’s a chance you’ll remember what I say. See you later.” The air-lock door closed behind him.
Lackland did not, actually, remember Rosten’s parting remarks; but he was reminded, many hours later, when he had slept and eaten once more.