Then he put on his spacesuit, clumsy with his single hand to close seams. He picked up sextant and telescope, and slipped out into the Plutonian night.
It was as utterly black as the bottom of a pond of ink. But above Wofforth shone the faithful stars, in the constellations mapped by the first star-gazers of long ago. He made observations, checked for time and position. He chuckled inside his helmet, as though congratulating himself. Back in the tent, he opened the log book and wrote:
First day: Course due west. Run 410 mi. To go 9590 mi. approx. Supplies adeq. Spirits good.
Wriggling out of his space gear, he lay down, asleep almost before his weary limbs relaxed.
Everyone was awake before dawn. They made coffee on the heater, and broke out protein biscuits for breakfast.
As the tiny sun winked into view over the horizon, they loaded the sled. Corbett slouched toward the idling engine at the tail of the sled.
"No, get on amidships," said Wofforth. "I'll take over engine."
"My job—" began Corbett.
"You're relieved. Strap yourself on the ration boxes. That's right. Jenks, steer again. Make for the level ahead."