No answer.
"Hey!" he called again.
And still there was no answer.
Around Mike the Angel, there was nothing but the swirling, blinding
snow, the screaming, tearing wind, and the blackness of the Antarctic
night.
There was something damned odd going on here. Carefully putting the toe
of his right foot to the rear of the heel of his left, he executed a
one-hundred-eighty-degree military about-face.
And breathed a sigh of relief.
He could still see the lights of the foyer. He had half suspected that
someone was trying to trap him out here, and they might have turned off
the lights.
He swiveled his head around for one last look. He still couldn't see a
sign of anyone. There was nothing he could do but head back and report
the incident. He started slogging back through the gritty snow.
He stepped through the hot-air curtain and flipped up his faceplate.
"Why did you go out in the blizzard?" said a clear, contralto voice
directly behind him.