A sudden flurry of unseen particles buffeted Salvor-Jones and bowled him over. Something big smashed against the roof hatch with such force that the entire beacon shuddered. The lid of the hatch, its braces torn from under it, clanged shut. Then the sudden gust abated.
Salvor-Jones crawled over to the escape hatch and looked at it. It was slightly askew; there was plenty of room to get his hands under the edge of it. He tugged manfully in an effort to slide it aside enough to admit him, but in vain. It weighed more than half a ton.
He pried at it with his adjustable wrench but it wouldn't budge. He looked around for something longer. There was nothing.
Professor Salvor-Jones realized that he was going to die on Pluto. He wished that he believed in prayer.
He read the gage of his heating unit. Not much longer.
He sat down on the hatch, heedless of the silent flak about him. He envied Knucklebone Smith over there; the man had never known what hit him.
Knucklebone was still standing there, tall against the night, rigidly leaning against the superstructure, an impossible caricature of death.
Something clicked in Salvor-Jones's brain. One faint, mad hope. He crawled over and tugged at Smith's legs. The tall corpse came crashing down on top of him.
He seized one unyielding foot, a big, all-important, boot-clad foot that stuck out at just the right angle, and began to drag Knucklebone across the width of the dome.