She was blond and heavily freckled and muscular and almost six feet tall and withstood the gale without a parka, but she had to shout to be heard over the wind, her Australian accent twisting around their ears. “Ye’ll want to take your gear out to the bunkhouse now, before it blows any harder.” She gestured toward a smaller structure a hundred meters away that was anchored to the rock by stout cables. “Then get on inside the station here, and we’ll talk about ye dinnah!” All but Valena and Dave ignored her first instruction and instead headed straight into the station house muttering words like, “Cocoa,” and “Whiskey.” Dave was busy on the back of the Delta setting up the hose to drain the water tank into its counterpart inside the station. Sheila turned toward Valena. “So this is y’ chance, woman!” she roared. “They’s only eight bunks out there, they’s five of ye, and I got three more already staying there while they dick around with the transmitter. Go on out there and get a lower bunk before these louts double back on ye!”
