“But, sir,...!” Rob burst out.
The spacemaster looked at him levelly.
“I’m sorry, Rob. I realize you’ve got a more personal interest in the Capella than the rest of us. But we’re simply licked.”
Rob turned away from him in abject despair and stared unseeingly out of the port. Filling his inner eye, to the oblivion of all else, was the sight of a grinning young spaceman, with a perpetually rumpled shock of blond hair. He’d never see Jim Hawley again. Knowing this, it was as though a part of himself had suddenly died.
As the Rigel headed away from the area over which it had cruised unsuccessfully for so long a time, a burst of static came over the long-silent, open circuit of the space ship’s radio. Rob’s heart thrilled with hope. Could it really be the Capella trying to make contact?
More static followed, then a muffled voice, barely audible, saying: “Capella to space ship. Can you hear?”
Spacemaster O’Leary scooped up the radio mike, eager as a child. “Yes! Yes! Give your location!”
The communication came over badly, but O’Leary found out that he was speaking to the Capella’s skipper, Spacemaster Nielson. Port telescopes were pointed to the spot given as the location of the downed rocket. Rob focused his on the upright craft, which was buried in hoarfrost and situated on the top of a slope leading down into the blue oxygen lake. Rob realized that only the luckiest of glances could have picked up the camouflaged ship.
On the mike again, Spacemaster O’Leary asked, “Are all aboard the ship well?”
“We’re all suffering from the cold,” was the reply. “Remember we’ve been here for weeks, although it seems like years! We had to draw from the atomic reactor to make a heater, but that isn’t adequate. Some of the men have frostbite. The ship is under a foot of frozen matter as you can see. The truth of the matter is we came woefully unprepared to tackle such an icebox!”