"What is it Mike?" Sid's voice came in my ear.
"Trouble," I said. "What did we expect?"
"Roger," he said in that toneless unexcited astronauts' voice. "Return to ship, Mike."
"Not now," I said. "I've just got the oyster opened."
His voice cut like my drill-bit. "I ordered you to return to ship. Your air supply is about shot."
"I haven't been out that long," I protested, not feeling too sure about the lapse of time.
"Your drill chewed it up pretty fast. Quit talking and start moving."
I was thankful for the experience of moving in close to the bird. The same tricks worked much more smoothly as I used my deflection plate in front of my belly blast to turn me to face the floodlight, and then followed up with a light shove or two in the spine to start me drifting toward Nelly Bly. There didn't seem any rush, and I drifted slowly over, using only a couple triggered bursts of deceleration to slow me down as I approached the open hatch.
Inside we went through the drill. My ears popped a little as Sid unchucked my spent tanks, and popped again as the new ones came on with a hiss.
"Take it easy on that steering fuel, Mike," he said again. "You're getting awfully low."