The ship commander shook his head. The words were supposed to mean something vital. He played them back in his mind.
"We're through. We're through."
If he could understand why the silence hurt his ears, why he was tense, why—Realization spread over his body in a wave of exhilarating relief.
Speech failed him after Art helped him remove his suit. Speech was unnecessary the way Art rapidly filled him in on the lack of casualties and minor damage.
"How long was I out?" the commander at last brought himself to ask, noticing Bleck's body had been removed.
"Over an hour," Art answered. "When the rocks stopped punching I couldn't raise you on the intercom. Found you passed out. You wouldn't revive so I took advantage of my second-in-command rank and straightened out the ship's spin with the guide jets."
Hiller glanced at the ports. The stars rode steadily, and he was aware his viscera felt stable.
"But dammit, Art, all this air!" Hiller complained, waving his hand over his head. "Aren't you over-generous? We must have lost enough through the hull to put us in suits, or at least turn us back."
The engineer grinned teasingly. "I don't think we've lost a cubic inch, Fred."
"The patch kit?"