In the semi-darkness, he reached up, felt his fingers brush along the curved, smooth ceiling of the gently inclined passage. There; an emergency pressure duct, designed to open automatically in the event of malfunction of the ship's atmospheric regulators. Emergency pressure could be built up through the ducts in the event of any sudden fall of more than eight ounces per square inch; and would be instantly released should it mount more than three pounds above. All he had to do was jam this single duct to the "excess" position and hold his breath.
It was like picking a lock with his bare fingers, and they felt like fat sausages. And then he had it.
There was a sudden scream of escaping air about him, and he plunged forward.
Somewhere an alarm clanged, and he knew that within moments the skeleton maintenance crew would be suited and pouring in on the ramp with everything it had, from Geiger counters to baling wire. Already, even above the near deafening alarms, he could hear the pounding of their feet.
He dashed for it.
Reached the berth, and there was a tender snuggled into it, ready and waiting.
He had the small craft's outer lock opened within seconds.
"KANE!"
He whirled, even as the inner lock was sliding open. It was Deanne Starn. And she was running toward him.
The inner lock was open, and Jon pushed her through it, and then had himself strapped before the miniature control console almost before the blinker winked to signal that the outer and inner lock ports were sealed.