Nomad by George O. Smith

Maynard looked at the ground, and wondered. It was cold -- deathly cold -- in spite of the years of the barrier-input. Cold enough to give him hope.

Guy set his crowbar into the grave and pried. The dirt came out in lumps -- the same lumps blasted long ago to create the shallow trench. The white wrappings were not soiled; the ground was frozen hard enough to prevent bits of grime from working their way into the soft cloth. The body was stiff and utterly cold beneath the wrappings, and it was more like carrying a log than a human being. But Guy took the exhumed one to the _Loki_, removed the white wrappings, and snapped on the battery of heat lamps.