Jordan went to the control panel and flipped levers. "They're out and working," he said, gazing at the screen. "Now, Anti, go to the freight lock. Close your helmet and wait. I'll let the air out slowly. The pressure change will be gradual. If anything seems wrong, let me know over the helmet radio and I'll yank you in immediately. Once you're outside I'll give you further instructions. Tools and equipment are in a compartment that opens into space."
Anti waddled away.
Jordan looked down at his legless body. "I suppose we have to be realistic about it—"
"We do," answered Docchi. "Anti is the only one of us who has a chance of doing the job and surviving."
Jordan adjusted a dial. "It was Cameron who was responsible for it. If Anti doesn't come back, you can be damn sure he'll join her."
"No threats, please," said Docchi. "When are you going to let her out?"
"She's out," said Jordan. Deliberately, he had diverted their attention while he had taken the burden of emotional strain.
Docchi glanced hastily at the telecom. Anti was hanging free in space, wrapped and strapped in strips torn from the useless spacesuits—that, and more flesh than any human had ever borne. The helmet sat jauntily on her head; the oxygen cylinder was strapped to her back. She was still intact.
"How is she?" he asked anxiously, unaware that the microphone was open.
"Fine," came Anti's reply, faint and ready. "The air's thin, but it's pure oxygen."