like a perpetual motion machine, his brain kept reaching for something that could save his space station, his own people, the iron-nerved spacemen who knew they were near death but kept their vital posts, waiting for him to find a way.
stories do not end unhappily—that thought kept cluttering his brain—a muddy optimism blanking out vital things that might be done.
"what's the altitude jones?"
"520 now. leveling a bit."
"enough?" it was a stupid question and kevin knew it. jones shook his head.
"we might be lucky," he said. "we'll hit it about 97 miles up. the top isn't a smooth surface, it billows and dips. but," he added, almost a whisper, "we'll penetrate to about 80 miles before...."
"how much time?" kevin asked sharply. a tiny chain of hope linked feebly.
"about 22 minutes."
"bert, order all hands into space suits—emergency!"
while the order was being carried out, kevin summoned the tugmen.
"how many loaded pistols do we have?"
"six," the chief answered.
"all right. get this quick. anchor yourselves inside the hub. aim those pistols at the earth and fire until they're exhausted."
the chief stared incredulously.
"i know it's crazy," kevin snapped. "it's not enough, but if it alters our orbit 50 feet, it'll help." the tugmen ran out. bert, kevin and jones scrambled into space suits. morrow called for reports.
"all hands," he intoned steadily, "open all ports. repeat. open all ports. do not question. follow directions closely."
ten seconds later, a whoosh of escaping air signaled obedience.
"now!" kevin shouted, "grab every loose object within reach. throw it at the earth. desks, books, tools, anything. throw them down with every ounce of strength you've got!"
it was insane. everything was insane. it couldn't possibly be enough.... but space around the hurtling station blossomed with every conceivable flying object that man has ever taken with him to a lonely outpost. a pair of shoes went tumbling into darkness, and behind it the plastic framed photograph of someone's wife and children.
jones knew his superior had not gone berserk. he bent anxiously over the radar scope.
it was not a matter of jettisoning weight. every action has an equal reaction, and the force each man gave to a thrown object was as effective in its diminuitive way as the exhaust from a rocket.
"read it!" morrow shouted. "read it!"
"265 miles," jones cried. "i need more readings to tell if it helped."
there was no sound in the radio circuit, save that of 90 men breathing, waiting to hear 90 death sentences. jones' heavily-gloved hands moved the pencil clumsily over the graph paper. he drew a tangent to a new curve.
"it helped," he said tonelessly, "we'll go in at 100 miles, penetrate to 90...."
"not enough," kevin said. "close all ports. repeat. close all ports!"
an unheard sigh breathed through the mammoth, complex doughnut as automatic machinery gave new breath to airless spaces.
it might never be needed again to sustain human life.
but the presence of air delivered one final hope to morrow's frantic brain.
"two three oh miles," jones said.
"air control," kevin barked into the mike, "how much pressure can you get in 15 minutes?"
"air control, aye," came the answer, and a pause while the chief calculated. "about 50 pounds with everything on the line."
"get it on! and hang on to your hats," kevin yelled.
the station dropped another 30 miles, slanting in sharply toward the planet's envelope of gas that could sustain life—or take it away. morrow turned to anderson.
"bert. there are four tubes leading into the hub. get men and open the outer airlocks. then standby the four inner locks. when i give the signal, open those locks, fast. you may have to pull to help the machinery—you'll be fighting three times normal air pressure."
bert ran out. nothing now but to wait. five minutes passed. ten.
"we're at 135 miles," jones said. far below the earth wheeled by, its apparent motion exaggerated as the space station swooped lower.
"120 miles."
kevin's throat was parched, his lips dry. increasing air pressure squeezed the space suits tighter around his flesh. a horror of claustrophobia gripped him and he knew every man was suffering the same torture.
"110 miles."
"almost there," bert breathed, unaware that his words were audible.
then a new force gripped them, at first the touch of a caressing finger tip dragging back, ever so slightly. kevin staggered as inertia tugged him forward.
"we're in the air!" he shouted. "bert. standby the airlocks!"
"airlocks ready!"
the finger was a hand, now, a huge hand of tenuous gases, pressing, pressing, but the station still ripped through its death medium at a staggering 20,000 miles an hour.
jones pointed. morrow's eyes followed his indicating finger to the thermocouple dial.
the dial said 100° f. while he watched it moved to 105, quickly to 110°.
