"Still out."
"But all those penetrations with us in a twirl—"
"All taken care of." Art was enjoying himself.
Hiller's hunch, never considered seriously, jumped back into his mind. That had to be the only explanation.
Art was going on, "As a matter of fact, there's a good example right there." He pointed above them to the bulkhead, layered with plastic, a coolant area, and duralite, that separated the men from space. "One of the toughest hits the ship took, blasted an inch-round hole, looks like. No wonder you conked out."
The after effects of the experience again was making it difficult for the commander to focus his eyes. He unbound his seat bands and clanked directly under the spot, his friend following.
From the closer viewpoint he could see a small, glistening white circle in the bulkhead surrounded by a ring of heat-discolored metal. That was no patch.
He grinned back at Art. "Automatic, eh?"
"I never considered the possibility," Art replied. "I figured the inside pressure would be too great."
"I'm not trying to sound off big," the commander said, "but I had it in the back of my mind when I decided to sail through. As it turned out, it meant the difference between survival or otherwise. Had I known that, I might not have gambled."