"Meteoroid broached the hull, then must have gone on and almost hit Pop. If it was a close miss, the force of its passage must have made him duck and fall."
"But I don't feel any air escaping."
"There isn't now. I patched the hole, inside. Temporary job, though. Pop'll—" He stopped in sudden realization, then straightened resolutely and his voice was calmer, more sure, as he went on. "I mean, I'll have to go outside and make a permanent weld. Might as well do it now."
His mother's face showed the pride she felt in this young son who could plan and do the things that had to be done, even while she knew he was upset by his father's accident.
"Yes, it should be done at once." But she gripped his arm convulsively. "Be sure your lifeline is fastened securely, Jon."
He patted her hand awkwardly. "I will, Mom. I've been outside a lot, you know, and understand just what to do."
He broke away and ran toward the airlock. From the closet just inside the inner lockdoor he took his spacesuit, and put it on as quickly as he could. He was still working on the zippered seam down the front, smearing on the quickly-drying plastic that made it doubly airtight, when his brother came in.
"Can I help, Chubby?"
"Sure, give me a hand with my helmet. Say, Owl, will Pop really be all OK?"
"I ... I think so. He got a bad smack when he fell. But his heart seems to be beating strongly, and I think the concussion'll wear off soon. The leg'll heal, but he'll be out of commission about six weeks."