five seconds more. a blinding pain of tension stabbed kevin behind the eyes. but through the flashing colors of agony, he counted, slowly, deliberately....

"now!" he shouted. "open airlocks, bert. now!"

air rushed out through the converging spokes of the great wheel, poured out under tremendous pressure, into the open cup of the space station hub, and there the force of three atmospheres spurted into space through the mammoth improvised rocket nozzle.

kevin felt the motion. every man of the crew felt the surge as the intricate mass of metal and nylon leaped upward.

that was all.

morrow watched the temperature gauge. it climbed to 135°, to 140° ... 145 ... 150....

"the temperature is at 150 degrees," he announced huskily over the radio circuit. "if it goes higher, there's nothing we can do."

the needle quivered at 151, moved to 152, and held....

two minutes, three....

the needle stepped back, one degree.

"we're moving out," kevin whispered. "we're moving out!"

the cheer, then, was a ringing, deafening roar in the earphones. jones thumped kevin madly on the back and leaped in a grotesque dance of joy.