The chill of space seemed to filter through the Cordolite. One pull on the lever was all it would take. And how was he going to reach the lever?
He moved sideways and glanced from the tip of his sleeve to the lever — about twenty-four inches. It might as well be twenty-four feet.
Instinctively, he looked around. There was nothing to stand on. He cursed the futility of his thought. As if it would do any good to find something to stand on.
He looked again at the two-foot vastness between his hand and the lever. Involuntarily, his body contorted in an attempt to twist upwards towards that key to freedom. The whispering, screaming sounds mocked the futility of it. Almost, he screamed back at it.
There had to be some way to reach that handle. He squirmed, tipped, tipped farther —
That was it!
Spread-eagled against the wall, he slowly tilted on one leg like some fantastic windmill. Inch by inch, his hand neared the handle. Half the distance was closed. Then he saw the arc of his arm would not intersect the position of the handle. He straightened and moved more directly under it.
He tipped again. This time he would make it. Glancing through the lens of the headpiece, he saw the gap narrowing. That image was all that was real in the world. He concentrated on it, willing the gap to close.
That concentration cost him his sense of balance for a bare instant. Only an instant, and disaster swept upon him. He tottered, felt the sickening sense of lost orientation.
Soundless in the vacuum of the test chamber, the heavy suit crashed to the floor.