McCauley stripped off his space suit.
"They're in more trouble than they know," he growled. "They lost two air tanks off their sledge."
The communications officer's mouth dropped open.
"But Colonel, sir.... They couldn't! They need those tanks to get back with!"
"Exactly," McCauley snapped. "Route the relay's local-antenna and suit-radio frequencies in to me. I'll take the messages."
He stamped through the cramped and shabby little base to the minute compartment set aside for the Base Commander's office. It was approximately four feet by six. He settled down in the one chair, glowering. Automatically he glanced at the dials that reported conditions at the base. Outside temperature facing sun, 198°. Shadow temperature, minus 205°. Inside barometric pressure, 30.02 inches. Inside temperature, 72°. Carbon monoxide, 28 parts per million. Carbon dioxide, 1.8%. Oxygen, 21.2%.
The physical state of the base was good. But there were two men out on Farside who lacked two tanks of air they needed to get back. Although it was their intention that only one of them should return, they'd outsmarted themselves. Neither could get back, now.
A clicking from a loud-speaker. A wavery voice:
"Calling Grimaldi Base! Calling Grimaldi! Call...."
"Calling Repeater Two," said McCauley. He was very grim. "Calling Repeater Two!"