"But we can't hold out that long."
"No, we damwel can't," grunted Franks unhappily. "These suits aren't designed for anything but a severe cold. Not a viciously killing kind. At best, they'll keep up fairly well at minus forty degrees, but below that they lose ground degree for degree."
Christine yawned sleepily.
"Don't let that get you," said Walt nervously. "That's the first sign of cold-adaptation."
"I know," she answered. "I've seen enough of it on Mars. You lose the feeling of cold eventually, and then you die."
Walt held his forehead in his hands. "I should have made an effort," he said in a hollow voice. "At least, if I'd started a ruckus, Kingman might have been baffled enough to let you run for it."
"You'd have been shot."
"But you'd not be in this damned place slowly freezing to death," he argued.
"Walt," she said quietly, "remember? Kingman had that gun pointed at me when you surrendered."
"Well, damn it, I'd rather have gone ahead anyway. You'd have been—"