"To do all of that. The expedition mapped an area at least that wide around Base Camp, and it's slick and smooth. We can almost slide in."
"All slick and smooth but just this side of Base Camp, lieutenant," said Jenks.
"How do you mean?"
"That string of craters. Don't you remember? It's just this side—east of Base Camp. This sled'll never go over that, sir."
"Nor around," Corbett put in. "We'd have to detour maybe three thousand miles. And the heaters in our suits won't last."
"I know about the craters," said Wofforth. "Well take care of them when we reach them."
Stripping, he lowered his body into the makeshift tub and began to scrub himself one-handed.
He wakened in the morning to the sound of furious argument.
Corbett and Jenks, of course. A trifle—division of the breakfast ration, or of the breakfast chores—had set off their nerves like trains of explosive. Even as Wofforth rose from his bedstrip, Corbett swung a cobble-like fist at Jenks' gaunt, grimacing face. The nimbler, smaller man ducked and sidled away. Corbett took a lumbering step to close in on his enemy, and Jenks darted a hand to his belt behind, then brought it forward again with an electro-automatic pistol.