"Right. Now let go of it," commanded McCauley. "Randy, how fast are we drifting away?"
Randy's voice came hoarse and harsh.
"I don't know. Slowly, but you're a good hundred and fifty feet off. A trifle more."
McCauley calculated aloud, for his own comfort as well as the information of Randy and Sammy Breen.
"We've been drifting maybe half a minute. Those 'tips' of yours were about one second apart. We're spinning once in two seconds at the ends of a thirty-foot rope. Each of us has an angular velocity of something over forty feet per second. Forty-five or better. Our joint speed away from the Platform—a hundred and fifty feet in thirty seconds.... Somewhere around five feet per second. Not much more, anyhow! We're practically crawling away, but we're spinning like blazes."
Randy said, dry-throated:
"Even if we had rope, Ed, I couldn't get it to you."
"I know," said McCauley curtly. "Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir," said Sammy Breen's voice, quite steady now. "I've thought of something, sir. If we act fast and I cut the rope at just the right instant, sir...."
"Keep quiet!" snapped McCauley. "That's an order! Right now I want you to push that equipment at the end of my rope away from you as hard as you can, in the direction we're spinning. The way we're spinning! You've got too much angular velocity. Understand?"