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Jill said, "I'm supposed to check the hatch."

 

"Stay put. I'll do it." Kinsman unbuckled and rose effortlessly out of his seat to bump his helmet lightly against the overhead hatch.

 

"You two both sealed tight?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Keep an eye on the air gauge." He cracked the hatch open a scant centimeter.

 

"Pressure's steady. No red lights."

 

Nodding, Kinsman pushed the hatch open all the way. He pulled himself up and through the shoulder-wide hatch.

 

Light and easy, he reminded himself. No big motions. No sudden moves.

 

Sliding through the station hatch he slowly rotated, like an underwater swimmer doing a lazy rollover, and inspected every millimeter of the docking collar in the light of his helmet lamp. Satisfied that it was locked in place, he pushed himself fully inside the station. Carefully he pressed his cleated boots into the gridwork flooring and stood upright. His arms tended to float out, but they bumped the equipment racks on either side of the narrow central passageway. Kinsman turned on the station's interior lights, checked the air supply, pressure and temperature gauges, then shuffled back to the hatch and pushed himself through again.

 

He re-entered the Manta upside-down and had to con- tort himself around the pilot's seat to regain a "normal" attitude.

 

"Station's okay," he said at last. "Now how in hell do we get her through the hatch?"

 

Jill had already unbuckled the harness over Linda's shoulders. "You pull, I'll push. She'll bend around the corners easily enough."

 

And she did.

 

The station interior was about the size and shape of a small transport plane's cabin. On one side nearly its entire length was taken up by instrument racks, control equipment, and electronics humming almost inaudibly behind lightweight plastic panels. Across the narrow separating aisle were the 77 crew stations: control desk, two observation ports, lab benches. At the far end, behind a discreet curtain, were the head and the sleeping bags.

 

Kinsman stood at the control desk, in his blue fatigues now, his cleated shoes gripping the holes in the gridwork flooring to keep him from floating off. The desk was almost shoulder height, a convenient level in zero gee. His space suit had been stored in the locker beneath the floor panels. He was running a detailed checkout of the station's life-support systems: air, water, heat, electrical power. All operating within permissible limits, although the water supply would need replenishment at the rate it was being depleted. Recy- cling was never a hundred percent effective. He stepped leftward carefully to the communications console; everything operating normally. The radar screen showed a single large blip close by: the power pod.

 

He looked up as Jill came through the curtain from the bunkroom. She was still in her space suit, with only the helmet removed.

 

"How is she?"

 

Looking tired, Jill answered, "Okay. Still sleeping. I think she'll be all right when she wakes up,"

 

"She'd better be. We can't have a wilting flower around here. I'll abort the mission."

 

"Give her a chance, Chet. She just lost her cookies when free-fall hit her. All the training in the world can't prepare you for those first few minutes."

Are sens

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