There was no answer.
The rocket came into view again, farther away. He had to get back somehow. Forgetting the bound position of his hands, he attempted to check his belt equipment. Holding his arms as far as possible from his body was not enough to let him get a look at the harness from within his helmet.
He tugged violently at the cord holding the thumbs of his gauntlets, and thought it gave slightly.
Maybe it just tightened, he thought.
To free his hands, he drew his arms in through the wide armpits of the suit sleeves, built that way to enable the wearer to feed himself, wipe his brow, or adjust clothing or heating units within the suit. He felt more comfortable but that got him nowhere except for the chance to consult his wrist watch.
Set at the lunar time of Centauri VII-4, it told him that when he had gone out of the airlock five minutes before the time had been 17:36. It did not strike Tremont as being a very promising bit of data—warning him merely that when he began to feel the want of air, it would be about 21:30. He longed for a pen-knife.
"There's one thing I'm going to ask about on my next trip to Sol—if I make one!" he muttered. "Has anyone developed a reliable, small suit air lock, so you can pass things out from your pockets?"
He thrust his hands once more into the arms of the suit, and felt as far along his belt as he could. He did manage to reach the usual position of the standard rocket pistol. The hook was empty.
"Well, that's that!" he groaned. "They didn't forget. I have nothing to maneuver with."
He pondered worriedly. Perhaps the air—if he dared to waste any, it would make a small jet. Slow, but he had all the rest of his life!