"Maybe it's the rations," Towne suggested, with the hint of a twinkle. Towne was a great kidder.
"Trouble with you, Pace," said Briggs. "You think too much. Too many gadgets out here to do your work for you. The Authority oughta scrap some of these robot controls and get you to use your hands. It's a great cure for the doldrums, you know."
Murchison, the third man, looked grave. "In my opinion," he said judiciously, "we need a better rotation system out here. How long have you been observing on GT-8?"
"One year, five months, two weeks, three days...." Pace looked at nothing.
"Two hours, forty minutes, and seven seconds, eh?" Towne chuckled. "You outposters are all alike. Living clocks, every one of you." He nudged Murchison's side. "Watch this, Deano. What time is it now, Pace? No fair looking."
"Sixteen hundred plus twenty," the man answered dully.
Towne checked his wrist. "On the button," he said gleefully. "You really get a talent for it on this job."
"Use your hands," Briggs insisted. "Get out and dig. Plant something. Build something. Make yourself some furniture."
Murchison frowned. "Not so fast, Freddie." He took a folded paper from his hip pocket and whispered something to the man by his side. "Spec sheet, GT-8."
"Never mind," said Pace. "I don't expect you to know the specs on every outpost on the Belt."