Mike the Angel swung toward the air curtain. This time there was no doubt. Someone was out in that howling ice-cloud, screaming for help!
Mike saw the figure—dimly, fleetingly, obscured most of the time by the driving whiteness. Whoever it was looked as if he were buried to the waist in snow.
Mike made a quick estimate. It was dark out there, but he could see the figure; therefore he would be able to see the foyer lights. He wouldn’t get lost. Snapping down the faceplate of his parka hood, he ran through the protective updraft of the air curtain and charged into the deadly chill of the Antarctic blizzard.
In spite of the electroparka he was wearing, the going was difficult. The snow tended to plaster itself against his faceplate, and the wind kept trying to take him off his feet. He wiped a gloved hand across the faceplate. Ahead, he could still see the figure waving its arms. Mike slogged on.
At sixty below, frozen H2O isn’t slushy, by any means; it isn’t even slippery. It’s more like fine sand than anything else. Mike the Angel figured he had about thirty feet to go, but after he’d taken eight steps, the arm-waving figure looked as far off as when he’d started.
Mike stopped and flipped up his faceplate. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of razor blades into his face. He winced and yelled, “What’s the trouble?” Then he snapped the plate back into position.
“I’m cold!” came the clear, contralto voice through the howling wind.
A woman! thought Mike. “I’m coming!” he bellowed, pushing on. Ten more steps.
He stopped again. He couldn’t see anyone or anything.
He flipped up his faceplate. “Hey!”