Tremont began to swear at him, then got a grip on himself long enough to snap his radio off.
He had begun pulling himself down the pole when Braigh had shoved. That sapped some of the force, but it was still enough to send him spinning out into the void once more.
The ship receded slowly. He saw Braigh return to the air lock and enter. A moment later, that light was cut off, and Tremont began to back off into space as he had the first time.
They know all about it, he realized. They could leave me any time just by burning a little fuel. Peters wouldn't care about wasting it—I paid for it. Maybe he's just too lazy to calculate the course correction.
If so, he decided, the pilot was right. Tremont might drift back, but two more hours from now, when he would be at his closest, would be too late. He would be too near the end of his air to use it to make sure of the last few feet.
He looked at the pole in his grip. It was an eight-foot section of aluminum from the cargo racks.
"Maybe ..." he muttered.
Whirling the pole around by the end, he managed after considerable trial and error, to slow his wild spin enough to keep the ship in view.
The only question then was whether he dared to take the chance; and he really had but one choice. The full orbit would be too long a period.
He estimated as well as he could the direction of his progress, allowed a few degrees which he fondly hoped would curve him in to a closer approach at the meeting point, and hurled the pole into space with all his strength.