"Pretty much so," admitted Dr. Smathers. "Remember, we're just here for
preliminary investigation. When the ship brings in more men and
equipment--"
His voice trailed off. Very likely, when the ship returned, it would
find an empty base. The first-string team simply wasn't set up for
exhaustive work; its job was to survey the field in general and mark out
the problems for the complete team to solve.
Establishing the base had been of primary importance, and that was the
sort of equipment that had been carried on the ship. That--and food. The
scientists had only the barest essentials to work with; they had no
electron microscopes or any of the other complex instruments necessary
for exhaustive biochemical work.
Now that they were engaged in a fight for survival, they felt like a
gang of midgets attacking a herd of water-buffalo with penknives. Even
if they won the battle, the mortality rate would be high, and their
chances of winning were pretty small.
The Space Service officers and the scientists discussed the problem for
over an hour, but they came to no promising conclusion.
At last, Colonel Fennister said: "Very well, Dr. Pilar; we'll have to
leave the food supply problem in your hands. Meanwhile, I'll try to keep
order here in the camp."
* * * * *
SM/2 Broderick MacNeil may not have had a top-level grade of
intelligence, but by the end of the second week, his conscience was
nagging him, and he was beginning to wonder who was goofing and why.
After much thinking--if we may so refer to MacNeil's painful cerebral
processes--he decided to ask a few cautious questions.
Going without food tends to make for mental fogginess, snarling tempers,
and general physical lassitude in any group of men. And, while quarter
rations were not quite starvation meals, they closely approached it. It
was fortunate, therefore, that MacNeil decided to approach Dr. Pilar.
Dr. Petrelli's temper, waspish by nature, had become positively virulent
in the two weeks that had passed since the destruction of the major food
cache. Dr. Smathers was losing weight from his excess, but his
heretofore pampered stomach was voicelessly screaming along his nerve
passages, and his fingers had become shaky, which is unnerving in a
surgeon, so his temper was no better than Petrelli's.
Pilar, of course, was no better fed, but he was calmer than either of
the others by disposition, and his lean frame didn't use as much energy.
So, when the big hulking spaceman appeared at the door of his office
with his cap in his hands, he was inclined to be less brusque than he
might have been.
"Yes? What is it?" he asked. He had been correlating notes in his
journal with the thought in the back of his mind that he would never
finish it, but he felt that a small respite might be relaxing.
MacNeil came in and looked nervously around at the plain walls of the
pre-fab plastic dome-hut as though seeking consolation from them. Then
he straightened himself in the approved military manner and looked at
the doctor.
"You Dr. Piller? Sir?"
"Pi_lar_," said the scientist in correction. "If you're looking for the
medic, you'll want Dr. Smathers, over in G Section."
"Oh, yessir," said MacNeil quickly, "I know that. But I ain't sick." He
didn't feel _that_ sick, anyway. "I'm Spaceman Second MacNeil, sir, from
B Company. Could I ask you something, sir?"