"It's a good name, Pat." As she rose he asked in surprise: "Your specimens? Aren't you going to prepare them?"
"Oh, to-morrow." She flung herself, parka and all, on her bunk.
"But they'll spoil! And your helmet light—I ought to fix it."
"To-morrow," she repeated wearily, and his own languor kept him from further argument.
When the nauseous odor of decay awakened him some hours later Pat was asleep, still garbed in the heavy suit. He flung bag and specimens from the door, and then slipped the parka from her body. She hardly stirred as he tucked her gently into her bunk.
Pat never missed the specimen bag at all, and, somehow, the next day, if one could call that endless night a day, found them trudging over the bleak plateau with the girl's helmet lamp still unrepaired. Again at their l
