"Right!" snapped Roger. "And listen, you Venusian bonehead! Make it good. I don't like being a clay pigeon for this crazy shooting gallery out here!"
"Aw, damp your tubes and get to work," drawled Astro. "Honestly, Tom, did you ever hear him not complain?"
Tom did not answer. He was busy fastening two oxygen tanks to the front of his space suit and Roger's. When he had finished, he checked the pressure and, satisfied, nodded to his unit mate.
Opening the nozzles of the bottles, they shot away from the ship into the nothingness of space.
"You have to go about fifteen degrees to your starboard and five degrees up on the ecliptic," called Astro from the control deck. "You'll hit Connel right on the nose!"
"Right!" replied Tom, turning the nozzle of the oxygen bottle to the left and immediately shooting off in the indicated direction. Roger followed quickly and expertly.
"See him?" called Tom.
"No," replied Roger. "Are you sure, you big clunk?"
"He's right above you!" snorted Astro over the intercom. Then his voice rose in alarm. "No! That isn't—"
"Duck, Tom!" cried Roger.