“There’s no rush for these men,” Nimec said. “And if it’s only a short time, we can adjust our drinking water rations so the Senators won’t have to worry about getting too thirsty. They’ll just have to give up their showers and smell as bad as the rest of us.”

Waylon was momentarily silent.

“This isn’t a decision we can make here on base, sir,” he said then. “When it comes to emergency extractions, it’s Air Force, NSF, and Department of Interior who get together for the call.” He paused. “They’ve got other considerations. Besides the weather or even our water plant going down, that is.”

Nimec looked at him. “What else is there?”

“Clay tells me it’s the solar flare activity NASA’s been making a fuss about. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Admin’s been consulting with them, thinks it might pan out sometime over the next week. I guess the main concern is that flights could be grounded indefinitely if it’s severe enough to foul radio communications. The bottom line is they want the Senators out right away.”

Nimec shook his head with displeasure.

“NASA,” he muttered. “We’ve got too many cooks standing over the pot. And I don’t like it.”

Waylon was quiet again. He appeared to be waiting for something. Nimec couldn’t tell what it was, but figured the base chief would get around to letting him know.

Meanwhile, he had his own preoccupations.

“Those twin-props,” he said. “How soon they arriving?”

Waylon thought for a moment.

“The trip’s got two legs,” he said. “It takes about five hours for the planes to cross the Strait of Magellan. Then they stop at Rothera station out at the western tip of the peninsula.”

“That’d be the Brits, right?”

“Right,” Waylon said. “They’re being about as helpful as we could ask. The most accessible place to refuel’s a depot outside their base, and Rothera’s providing a thousand gallons.” He moved his shoulders. “After the layover, I’d figure the second half of the flight to take another dozen hours.”

Nimec rubbed his chin.