Then a new force gripped them, at first the touch of a caressing finger tip dragging back, ever so slightly. Kevin staggered as inertia tugged him forward.
"We're in the air!" he shouted. "Bert. Standby the airlocks!"
"Airlocks ready!"
The finger was a hand, now, a huge hand of tenuous gases, pressing, pressing, but the station still ripped through its death medium at a staggering 20,000 miles an hour.
Jones pointed. Morrow's eyes followed his indicating finger to the thermocouple dial.
The dial said 100° F. While he watched it moved to 105, quickly to 110°.
Five seconds more. A blinding pain of tension stabbed Kevin behind the eyes. But through the flashing colors of agony, he counted, slowly, deliberately....
"Now!" he shouted. "Open airlocks, Bert. NOW!"
Air rushed out through the converging spokes of the great wheel, poured out under tremendous pressure, into the open cup of the space station hub, and there the force of three atmospheres spurted into space through the mammoth improvised rocket nozzle.