"Closer to three miles. Pretty good for a green hand."
Crag laughed, a quiet laugh of self-satisfaction, and said, "I could use a little elbow room. Any volunteers?"
"Liberty call," Prochaska sang out. "All ashore who's going ashore. The gals are waiting."
"I'm a little tired of this sardine can, myself," Larkwell put in. "Let's get on our Sunday duds and blow. I'd like to do the town." There was a murmur of assent. Nagel, who was monitoring the oxygen pressure gauge, spoke affirmatively. "No leaks."
"Good," Crag said with relief. He took a moment off to feel exultant but the mood quickly vanished. There was work ahead—sheer drudgery.
"Check suit pressure," he ordered.
They waited a moment longer while they tested pressure, the interphones, and adjusted to the lack of body weight before Crag moved toward the hatch. Prochaska prompted them to actuate their temperature controls:
"It's going to be hot out there."
Crag nodded, checked his temperature dial and started to open the hatch. The lock-lever resisted his efforts for a moment. He tested the dogs securing the door. Several of them appeared jammed. Panic touched his mind. He braced his body, moving against one of the lock levers with all his strength. It gave, then another. He loosened the last lock braced against the blast of escaping air. The hatch exploded open.
He stood for a moment looking at the ground, some twenty feet below. The metal framework now crumpled below the tail had done its work. It had struck, failing, and in doing so had absorbed a large amount of impact energy which otherwise would have been absorbed by the body of the rocket with possible damage to the space cabin.