DESTINATION—DEATH-3
471 Words
THE ICY WIND ROARED like ten million furies about the grounded ship, sucking up the powdery snow, smashing it against the gleaming alumisteel hull. Great boulders of snow and ice tumbled playfully about the rubbly landscape, splashed in foamy explosions into the semi-frozen pools of liquid that dotted the planet’s surface.
Tom Headley shivered involuntarily, turned back from the port.
“Colder than the hinges of hell out there,” he said worriedly. “I can understand how the first crude vac-suits couldn’t stand up for very long.”
“Yeah!” Caxton glanced up from sealing the zipper slit at the front of his suit. “I only hope these suits can take it.”
“They can; they’re made for absolute-zero work in space. Here, the only trouble lies in the super-gravity and the wind. Either might rupture the outfits.”
Caxton watched snow pile against a huge boulder, then saw it whisked instantly away by the force of the wind. He glanced at his vac-suit against the wall, and fear rode the sullenness of his eyes.
“Who’s going out to do the exploring?”
Headley smiled from where he tugged on his suit. “Both of us,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll stay together with a shock-line; then if one of us is injured, the other can help him back to the ship.”
He shrugged his shoulders into the suit, closed the air-tight zipper. Caxton turned slowly, lifted his suit, carefully fitted it to his stocky body. His fingers shook slightly, and his face was white.
Tom Headley watched his partner silently for a moment, then shrugged and checked the oxy-cylinder pressure-gauge. The needle pressed tight against its rest-pin. He lifted the glassite helmet, swung it idly in his hand for a moment. He knew the grimness of the moment, knew that the tank on his back held less than six hours of life-saving oxygen. When that was gone, if he were not back at the ship, he would die. A wry smile lifted the corners of his mobile mouth. Within the suit were enough concentrates and vitamin capsules to last him for months, and a special apparatus made it possible for water to be drawn from the air he breathed. He grinned at the thought; without air, the rest was superfluous.
“Okay,” Caxton said finally, “let’s take a look.” He slipped on the helmet, cogged it to his shoulder-plates, left the visi-port open. Cunning still burned in his eyes, and his gaze dropped when he caught the full impact of Headley’s distrust.
Headley locked on his helmet, cogged the port shut, tested his radio. Caxton answered shortly, shut his visi-ports and both turned to the entrance of the ship.
Metal squealed beneath Headley’s hands; then the cogs were loose. Headley braced his shoulder against the port, strained mightily, was joined by his partner. Together, their strength was sufficient to force the door open against pressure of the air outside.
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- Writer
