He had heard of mist on the Moon's surface, but he had seen none when he had first emerged. Yet his vision was being obscured more and more by a cloudiness. He strained his eyes, suddenly realized that the mist was not outside, it was inside! The slight amount of vapor inside his helmet was beginning to frost up on the inside of his face plate. What Peter had feared was beginning to happen.
Robin missed his footing, stumbled, not having seen the little ridge they had passed. Peter, now barely visible ahead of him, had not stopped. Robin felt the cord tighten as he slowed down, uncertain of where his feet were landing.
He began to feel groggy, realized that he was becoming frightened. He gritted his teeth on the unpleasant air tube, said to himself, Get a hold on, stay firm. Only a few more steps to go. Hang on! Hang on!
He conquered his panic. Blind or not, he would keep on until he passed out. The face plate was now solid white, completely opaque. He stumbled on, allowing the tight cord to direct him, pull him.
On and on, the journey seemed endless. Running, jumping, and bouncing, his feet banging against unseen rocks, hitting into cracks, kicking out, flying through space in bounds of blind horror. It was a nightmare such as he'd never dreamed.
Then, as he came down hard and banged into something, he felt his helmet slip a little, jog slightly. There was a whish and suddenly his face plate cleared completely. At the same instant he felt as if his eyes would pop, while something snatched at his nose and sucked the breath from him.
Through the clear plate he caught a wild glimpse of a large metallic structure sticking up out of the ground. The Russian rocket, he thought wildly. It was big like a huge bullet, gleaming brightly and polished. He saw it nearing him, realized he was being dragged along by Peter.
He realized also that his helmet had slipped a gap, that the air within had been sucked out, that the water vapor clogging his face plate had been snatched out with it, and that his face was exposed. But the oxygen tube was still in his mouth, still forcing air into him, and his nostrils were having it sucked out almost as fast. Somehow the thin stream of air rushing from the helmet kept his face from all the rigors of vacuum. His eyes were bulging and paining, he felt his nose spraying blood and a red film kept clogging the face plate and being snatched away by the escaping air.
Then as he realized he could no longer stand the agony, he felt himself grabbed under the shoulders, hoisted up, shoved into a small dark space and felt through his fingers the clang of a metal door. There came a hissing noise, and as consciousness at last oozed away from him, he knew that they had reached the air lock of the Soviet rocket and that his ordeal was over.