* * * * * Wofforth wrote in his log book: _Fifth day: Course north, west, then southwest. Curving thru mountainous territory. Run 1066 mi. but direct progress toward base camp not exceeding 950. To go, 6260 mi. approx. Supplies short. Spirits fair._ He wrote in his log book: _Seventh day: Course west, southwest, west, northwest, west. Run 1108 mi. To go 4090 mi. approx. Supplies low. Spirits fair._ He wrote in his log book: _Ninth day: Course northwest by west, west. Run 1108 mi. To go 2030 mi. approx. Supplies low. Spirits low...._ "Lieutenant," said Jenks from across the tent, as Wofforth closed the book. "Well?" "We know you're in command. This party and all of Pluto. But we ask permission to state our case." "What case is your case?" demanded Wofforth, rising. "I'm doing my best to get you back to Base Camp." "Sure," said Corbett. "Sure. But why Base Camp?" "You know why." "That's right, we know why," agreed Jenks, and Corbett grinned in his ten days' tussock of beard. "They'll have left supplies for us," Wofforth went on. "Shelter and food and fuel and instruments. They'll expect us to reach Base Camp and hold it down for the next attempt to reach Pluto." "We know why," repeated Jenks. "And that's not why, lieutenant. Let me talk, sir. It's a dead man talking." "You won't die," snapped Wofforth. "I'll get you both there alive." He stepped to where, in one corner, he had managed a bath--a hollow in the frozen ground, lined by pushing the floor fabric into it. From the heater he ran tepid, clean water into it. He clipped a mirror to the tent foil, searched out an automatic razor, and began to shave his own dark young thatch of beard. "You're proving my point, lieutenant," said Jenks. "Policing up your face to look pretty." "Why not?" growled Wofforth, mowing another swath of whiskers. "No reason why not. Ten, twenty years from now they'll find your body--whenever the inner orbits get to where they can boom off another expedition. You'll look young and clean-shaved. You know who'll weep." Wofforth lowered the razor in his good hand and glared at the two. They grinned in the bright light opposite him. They looked as if they hoped he'd see the joke. "I said it's a dying man that's talking," said Jenks again. "Won't you let me say my dying say, lieutenant? Let's all die honest." "I'm going to get you there," Wofforth insisted. "Ah, now," said Corbett, as though persuading a naughty child. "You think they've left twenty years' worth of supplies to keep us going? The ship didn't carry that much, even if they left it all." He grinned mirthlessly. "I can figure what you're figuring, lieutenant," he went on, with a touch of Jenks' sly manner. "You die, young and brave. You'll shave up again before you lie down and let go. And when the next shipload arrives there'll be you, lying like a statue of your good-looking young self, frozen stiff. Am I right?"