Voices joined in, self-consciously. They found themselves too few, and the song died.
Catherine rubbed her fingers together. "Even my pockets are cold now," she said wryly.
Gilchrist surprised himself; he took her hands in his. "That may help," he said.
"Why, thank you, Sir Galahad," she laughed. "You—Oh. Hey, there!"
O'Mallory, off guard detail now that everyone was assembled here, came over. He looked even bulkier than before in half a dozen layers of clothing. Gilchrist, who had been prepared to stand impotently in the background while the engineer distributed blarney, was almost relieved to see the fear on him. He knew!
"Any word?" asked Catherine.
"Not yet," he muttered.
"Why 'ave we so leetle light?" inquired Alemán. "What is it that draws the current so much? Surely not the heaters."
"No. It's the pump. The air-intake pump down in the pile room." O'Mallory's voice grew higher. "It's working overtime, sucking in more hydrogen. Don't ask me why! I don't know! Nobody does!"
"Wait," said Catherine eagerly. "If the room's losing its warm gas, and having to replace it from the cold stuff outside, would that account for the trouble we're having?"