Nagel snapped, "They're damned murderers."
"That's no reason we should be." Crag turned back toward the ladder. When he reached it, he paused and looked skyward. The sun was a precise circle of intolerable white light set amid the ebony of space. The stars seemed very close.
The space cabin was a vacuum. At Nagel's suggestion they kept pressure to a minimum to preserve oxygen. When they were out of their suits, Prochaska got on the radio. He had difficulty raising Alpine Base, working for several minutes before he got an answering signal. When the connection was made, Crag moved into Prochaska's place and switched to his ear insert microphone. He listened to the faint slightly metallic voice for a moment before he identified it as Gotch's. He thought: The Old Man must be living in the radio shack. He adjusted his headset and sent a lengthy report.
If Gotch were jubilant over the fruition of his dream, he carefully concealed it. He congratulated Crag and the crew, speaking in precise formal terms, and almost immediately launched into a barrage of questions regarding their next step. The Colonel's reaction nettled him. Lord, he should be jubilant ... jumping with joy ... waltzing the telephone gal. Instead he was speaking with a business-as-usual manner. Gotch left it up to Crag on whether or not to attempt a rescue expedition.
"But not if it endangers the expedition in any way," he added. He informed him that Drone Baker had been launched without mishap. "Just be ready for her," he cautioned. "And again—congratulations, Commander." There was a pause....
"I think Pickering Field is a fitting name." The voice in the earphones died away and Crag found himself listening to the static of space. He pulled the sets off and turned to Nagel.
"How much oxygen would a man need for a round trip to Bandit, assuming a total distance of seven miles."
"It's not that far," Prochaska reminded.
"There might be detours."
Nagel calculated rapidly. "An extra cylinder would do it."