that temperature if the surrounding temperature is at two hundred
thirty-three absolute than if it is up around two hundred ninety or
three hundred. That may not seem like much percentagewise, but it comes
out to a substantial saving in the long run.

But, power consumption or no, when C.C. of E. found that Snookums either
had to be moved or destroyed, it was mightily pleased that it had built
Prime Station near Chilblains Base. Since a great deal of expense also,
of necessity, devolved upon Earth Government, the government was, to say
it modestly, equally pleased. There was enough expense as it was.

The scenery at Chilblains Base--so named by a wiseacre American navy
man back in the twentieth century--was nothing to brag about. Thousands
of square miles of powdered ice that has had nothing to do but blow
around for twenty million years is not at all inspiring after the first
few minutes unless one is obsessed by the morbid beauty of cold death.

Mike the Angel was not so obsessed. To him, the area surrounding
Chilblains Base was just so much white hell, and his analysis was
perfectly correct. Mike wished that it had been January, midsummer in
the Antarctic, so there would have been at least a little dim sunshine.
Mike the Angel did not particularly relish having to visit the South
Pole in midwinter.

The rocket that had lifted Mike the Angel from Long Island Base settled
itself into the snow-covered landing stage of Chilblains Base,
dissipating the crystalline whiteness into steam as it did so. The
steam, blown away by the chill winds, moved all of thirty yards before
it became ice again.

Mike the Angel was not in the best of moods. Having to dump all of his
business into Serge Paulvitch's hands on twenty-four hours' notice was
irritating. He knew Paulvitch could handle the job, but it wasn't fair
to him to make him take over so suddenly.

In addition, Mike did not like the way the whole _Branchell_ business
was being handled. It seemed slipshod and hurried, and, worse, it was
entirely too mysterious and melodramatic.

"Of all the times to have to come to Antarctica," he grumped as the door
of the rocket opened, "why did I have to get July?"

The pilot, a young man in his early twenties, said smugly: "July is bad,
but January isn't good--just not so worse."

Mike the Angel glowered. "Sonny, I was a cadet here when you were
learning arithmetic. It hasn't changed since, summer or winter."

"Sorry, sir," sai