Cameron stared at her and saw shudderingly that it was. "You need a session with the psycho-computer," he said. "When we get back, that's the first thing we do. Can't you understand...."
"Be quiet," growled Jordan. "Now, Anti, explain what you've rigged up."
"Any kind of pressure is good enough as far as the outside of the body is concerned," answered Anti, flipping back the helmet. "Mechanical pressure will do as well as air pressure. I had Nona cut the spacesuits into strips and wind them around me—hard. Then I found a helmet that would fit over my head when the damaged part was cut away. It won't hold much air pressure, even taped very tight to my skin. But as long as it's pure oxygen—"
"It might be satisfactory," admitted Docchi. "But the temperature?"
"Do you think I'm going to worry about cold?" asked Anti. "Me? Way down below all this flesh?"
"Listen to me," said Cameron through his teeth. "You've already seriously threatened my career with all this childish nonsense. I won't permit you to ruin it altogether by a deliberate suicide."
"You and your stinking career," retorted Jordan tiredly. "We're not asking your permission to do anything." He turned away from the doctor. "You understand the risk, Anti? It's possible that it won't work at all."
"I've thought about it," Anti replied soberly. "On the other hand, I've thought about the asteroid."
"All right," said Jordan. Docchi nodded. Nona bobbed her head; it was doubtful that she knew what she was agreeing to.
"Let's have some telecom viewers outside," said Docchi. "One directly in back, one on each side. We've got to know what's happening."