"She's dead."
"No! She moved! Get her helmet off! There's enough air here."
My helmet pressure-indicator was faintly buzzing to show that a safe pressure was in the room. I shut off Moa's Erentz motors, unfastened her helmet, raised it off. We gently turned her body. She lay with closed eyes, her pallid face blue-cast from the light in the lock.
With our own helmets off, we knelt over her.
"Oh. Gregg, is she dead?"
"No. Not quite—but dying."
"Oh Gregg, I don't want her to die! She was trying to help you there at the last."
She opened her eyes; the film of death was glazing them. But she saw me, recognized me.
"Gregg—"
"Yes, Moa, I'm here."