Once she was gone Jordan looked down at his legless body. "I hate to do this but we've got to be realistic about it."
"It's the only way we've got a chance," answered Docchi. "Anti's the only one who can do the job. And I think she'll survive."
Jordan adjusted a dial. "Cameron had better hope she will," he muttered. "He'll join her if she doesn't."
Docchi glanced hastily at the screen. Anti was hanging free in space, wrapped and strapped in strips torn from the supposedly useless spacesuits. And she was also enclosed in more flesh than any human had borne. The helmet was taped jauntily to her head and the oxygen cylinder was fastened to her back. And she lived.
"How is she?" he asked anxiously, unaware that the microphone was open.
"Fine," came the reply, faint and reedy. "The air's thin but it's pure."
"Cold?"
"Don't know. Don't feel it yet. Anyway it can't be worse than the acid. What do I do?"
Jordan gave her directions while the others watched. It required considerable effort to find the tools and examine the tubes for defectives, to loosen the tubes in the sockets and pull them out, sending them spinning into space. It was still more difficult to replace them, though there was no gravity and Anti was held firmly to the hull by magnetics.
Anti had never been a technician of any kind. Cameron was sure of it. She was ignorant of the commonest terms, the simplest tool. She shouldn't have been able to do it. And yet she managed nicely, though she didn't know how. The explanation must be that she did know, that somewhere in her remote past, of which he was totally uninformed, she had had training which prepared her for this. Such contradiction was ridiculous. But there was rhythm to her motions, this giant shapeless creature whose bones would break with weight if she tried to stand at half gravity.