The Planet Mappers

by E. Everett Evans

"About twenty-four feet to the left, and one or two lower than the doortop, I think," he muttered to himself. He climbed several rungs, then half-straightened and set first one foot and then the other firmly and flatly onto the hull beside the ladder rungs. He tried each of his shoes, making sure their magnetic soles were gripping tightly against the hull surface. Then he let loose the ladder and stood upright. Compared to the decks inside, he was at right angles, but there is no up, down or sideways in space—except that your feet always seem "down."

Assured that his shoes were holding firmly, he slid first one foot and then the other along the hull. In this way he walked ahead, always in full contact, yet able to progress almost at a normal pace. He counted his steps, and when he felt he was near the hole for which he was looking, stooped and began searching about the surface more minutely.

His estimate had been close, and it took him only a moment to find the place where the meteoroid had struck. He drew his lifeline taut and tied the loop to his belt, leaving the end of the line still snapped in place. Now, even though his knot might come loose, he was still fastened to the ship.

He took the can of metal-seal from his belt pouch, fumbling a bit because it was difficult working with such heavy gloves as those attached to his spacesuit. There was plenty of light from the billions of stars, nor did it matter what hour the ship's chronoms might indicate inside, it was always the same out here.

He squatted down, still keeping both feet flat against the outer skin of the ship. Carefully he poured some of the sluggish, viscous liquid metal into the funnel-shaped hole, which was over an inch wide at the hull surface. Then he unslung his torch. He snapped the lighter and adjusted the flame to a narrow, pencil beam.

With the beam he melted the metal-seal he had poured into the hole. In the cold depths of space, where the temperature was about absolute zero, the metal cooled almost instantly as he turned his torch away. He then added more seal, melted that, then more seal, and so on, a bit at a time, until the hole was completely filled, and the hull surface once again smooth and even.

Satisfied at last that the damage to the ship was completely repaired, he hooked his torch to his belt once more, recapped the can of remaining metal-seal and stored it in his belt pouch. He rose and stood again for a few short moments, looking at the glory of the universe as it can only be seen from a spaceship. Then he made his way back to the lock and entered the ship.

He touched the stud and the motor slowly closed the great outer door. When the red signal light showed it was airtight, he punched the other button, air filled the entry, and then the inner door opened. He went through into the ship, closed the inner door, and when that was tight, started the motor that pumped the precious air from the lock back into the ship.

His brother had not stayed around to help him, so Jon had to strip the plastic from his zipper and around the base of his helmet by himself. It was an awkward job, as was trying to unscrew the lugs at the back of his shoulders, and he growled a bit beneath his breath because Jak had not waited, nor come back to help him.

But his irritation quickly passed and he grinned to himself. He knew his brother so well—Jak simply had not thought to stay and help, or he would willingly have done so.