The deep, dark, abysmally black night had fallen. Low down at the western horizon Earth hung, blue-green and glamorous, just above the crests of many ring mountains. It was a little past first quarter, and it gave only the faintest of light to the tortured and splintered rock formations outside Grimaldi Base. When Earth was full, there would be bright earthlight on the moon, and the moon's surface would look much stranger than any painter of fantastic pictures could imagine.
Inside the base, McCauley was going toward his office when a hand touched his arm. It was Kent. He looked forbidding and grim.
"I'd like to speak to you, sir," he said formidably.
McCauley waved him into the tiny office and closed the door.
"What's it all about?" he asked. He touched a switch and a desk light glowed. He touched another, but nothing in particular seemed to happen. "I've forgotten," he said mildly, "any unpleasant things I may have felt it necessary to say a few hours ago."
"It's Holmes, sir," said Kent, his lips tightly pressed together. "He didn't play fair, sir. When we split that extra air tank he cheated on it. He gave me more than he took himself. And when I was stuck with an avalanche ready to finish me any second, he...."
His voice rose shrilly. He complained bitterly that Holmes had saved his life at least four times.
"He had to," McCauley pointed out. "I said I'd court-martial whichever of you came in, if one came in alone."
"That's the devil of it," said Kent bitterly. "He didn't do it that way! He didn't do it grudgingly. Doggone him, he made me ashamed! If it weren't that I'm hanged if I'll ask any man to overlook things like I've done to him—and he's done to me—if I wouldn't be asking him to overlook so much, I'd...."