"Air control, aye," came the answer, and a pause while the chief calculated. "About 50 pounds with everything on the line."
"Get it on! And hang on to your hats," Kevin yelled.
The station dropped another 30 miles, slanting in sharply toward the planet's envelope of gas that could sustain life—or take it away. Morrow turned to Anderson.
"Bert. There are four tubes leading into the hub. Get men and open the outer airlocks. Then standby the four inner locks. When I give the signal, open those locks, fast. You may have to pull to help the machinery—you'll be fighting three times normal air pressure."
Bert ran out. Nothing now but to wait. Five minutes passed. Ten.
"We're at 135 miles," Jones said. Far below the Earth wheeled by, its apparent motion exaggerated as the space station swooped lower.
"120 miles."
Kevin's throat was parched, his lips dry. Increasing air pressure squeezed the space suits tighter around his flesh. A horror of claustrophobia gripped him and he knew every man was suffering the same torture.
"110 miles."
"Almost there," Bert breathed, unaware that his words were audible.