September 28, 1975: Sunday

It’s half-past September. Will we ever get rescued? Not in the next 18-24 hours.

We construct the outhouse. A fine piece of noble workmanship. We pose for the inaugural picture. Dave on the board and the rest of us queued (a Kiwi term for lined) up, waiting.

Scott Base plays Tom T. Hall records, when we call them at 6:00, to check out the distortion on the radio. One night it was 95%. But tonight it was only 75%. We could recognize “Welcome Home.”

I read. Heinlein is just a joker having fun. I’ve already counted six allusions to other author’s S.F. books and shows. We finally turn the stove off, it’s so warm. I borrow pen and paper and write notes because I had only planned on remembering three days, not seven.

Sam has done his Christmas shopping from the Navy catalog. He has a mistress. Admits it. He’s had one the 13 years he’s been married. I couldn’t live like that.

The book is about this dude who is two thousand years old. He’s a lot like Jubal, independent. A good ol’ guy.