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It was dark out there, but he could see the figure; therefore he would be able to see the foyer lights. He wouldn't get lost. Snapping down the faceplate of his parka hood, he ran through the protective updraft of the air curtain and charged into the deadly chill of the Antarctic blizzard. In spite of the electroparka he was wearing, the going was difficult.
Sanford flailed his arms about, trying to break the Chief's faceplate while he screamed furious things about futility. The Chief got exactly the hold he wanted. He lifted Sanford from the metal deck. He could have thrown him away to emptiness, then, but he did not. He set Sanford in mid-space as if upon a shelf. The raging man hung in the void an exact man-height above the Platform's surface.
"I'm cold!" came the clear, contralto voice through the howling wind. A woman! thought Mike. "I'm coming!" he bellowed, pushing on. Ten more steps. He stopped again. He couldn't see anyone or anything. He flipped up his faceplate. "Hey!" No answer. "Hey!" he called again. And still there was no answer.
There was a hefty maser-projector clutched in the armored gloves and whoever was inside the suit, the face was invisible behind the thick and tinted faceplate, seemed exceedingly nervous, turning to look in all directions. "Don't worry," Jason said, fighting to keep a tone of smug satisfaction out of his voice, "I'll take care of things for you.
He stepped through the hot-air curtain and flipped up his faceplate. "Why did you go out in the blizzard?" said a clear, contralto voice directly behind him. Mike swung around angrily. "Look, lady, I " He stopped. The lady was no lady. A few feet away stood a machine. Vaguely humanoid in shape from the waist up, it was built more like a miniature military tank from the waist down.
He tested it, reading the tank air-pressure, power-storage, and other data from the lighted miniature instruments visible through pinholes above his eye-level. He fastened a space rope about himself, speaking through the helmet's opened faceplate. "If our friends should wake up before I get back," he added, "please restrain them. I'd hate to be marooned."
The snow tended to plaster itself against his faceplate, and the wind kept trying to take him off his feet. He wiped a gloved hand across the faceplate. Ahead, he could still see the figure waving its arms. Mike slogged on. At sixty below, frozen H O isn't slushy, by any means; it isn't even slippery. It's more like fine sand than anything else.
Mike the Angel figured he had about thirty feet to go, but after he'd taken eight steps, the arm-waving figure looked as far off as when he'd started. Mike stopped and flipped up his faceplate. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of razor blades into his face. He winced and yelled, "What's the trouble?" Then he snapped the plate back into position.
Then Mike prepared to go out and hook on to it and tow it in. He was in his space suit and in the landing lock, though his helmet faceplate was still open. A loudspeaker boomed suddenly in Brown's voice: "Evacuate airlock and prepare to take off!" Joe roared: "Hold that!" Brown's voice, very official, came: "Withhold execution of that order. You should not be in the airlock, Mr. Kenmore.
Dense white fog came out of it. There was motion. Calhoun followed the fog out of the lock. He carried objects which had been weightless, but were suddenly heavy in the ship's gravity-field. There were two spacesuits and a curious assortment of parcels. He spread them out, flipped aside his faceplate, and said briskly, "This stuff is cold! Turn a heater on it, will you, Maril?"
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