Ballard started crawling into the hull and the light wavered and brightened. He couldn't understand it. Then it dimmed altogether—
The last of his oxygen was gone.
Dizzily he tried to squeeze through the rip. He kept slipping back ... back. There was a roaring darkness all around him, but he could still crawl.
For ages he seemed to be crawling over polished glass—His head crashed into something that clanged hollowly. Some fading portion of his consciousness told him he was inside the ship—and the clang had been the spacelocker. Automatically, as though by instinct, he reached up and fumbled with the handle—Then he was clumsily trying to fit a new oxygen cylinder into place....
Ballard awoke feeling cramped and tired, as though he'd slept all night in a bird cage. He looked at his chronometer, then at his suit air-gauge. No. He'd been out only a few minutes. He got up and crawled into the sleep-tank compartment and disconnected Walton's awakener. Then he went into the control room and looked up the nearest space-freighter lane in the radio call book, and set up an automatic distress signal. He felt as if he were going to pass out again—this time from sheer fatigue. There was still one thing more he wanted to do.
Out of the nose compartment he hauled a small case containing what had caused all the trouble—
Then he crawled back out through the torn hull skin, opened the case and flung every single one of the rotenite nuggets far out into space.