"There's the moon," said Randy hoarsely. "I can see by that, ... maybe."
Again silence. The shape which was Earth became the thinnest of crescents. The sun blazed fiercely almost at its outer rim.
The sun turned orange, crimson, ruby-red. It ceased to be a circle. One edge blacked out. It was half blacked out. It was gone.
McCauley wriggled in the harness outside his space suit. He spoke deliberately.
"I'm going to take all the deep breaths I can, Randy. I'll even let a little extra pressure into my suit. Then I'll take off my last air tank and try to steady myself with its jet of air. Then I'll put it under my feet and jump against it, toward you. Now listen! If anything goes wrong, it won't be your fault! Understand? Don't take any crazy risks. If I go on past the Platform, get into the cabin fast before the cold comes! That is my order! I expect you to obey it!"
"Cripes, Ed!" Randy's voice broke.
McCauley bled air into his suit. He breathed deeply and fast, saturating his lungs with oxygen. He removed the tank and then spent precious seconds stripping away the harness that had held tools and extra equipment to his suit.
He jetted away the air. In the utter silence that was the universe, the whistle of escaping compression was conducted to his gloved hands and so to the remaining air inside his space suit. He used the jet with infinite care. The tank tugged briefly and his random body rotation stopped. He saw the Platform, almost incredibly dim in the moonlight.
He jumped against the mass of the air tank and harness together. In seconds he could see that he was moving closer toward the silvery, spidery framework in the moonshine. He kept himself still. Nothing he could do now would add anything to his chance for life, and exertion would lessen the time left before he suffocated for lack of air.
He relaxed by an iron effort of will. He had gambled. He could win or he could lose. But he must keep the calmness of a man who sees the stakes down and waits for the outcome.