Brown's voice, very official, came: "_Withhold execution of that order.
You should not be in the airlock, Mr. Kenmore. You will please make way
for operational procedure._"
"We're checking the space wagon," snapped Joe. "That's operational
procedure!"
The loudspeaker said severely: "_The checking should have been done
earlier!_"
There was silence. Mike and Joe, together, painstakingly checked over
the very many items that had to be made sure. Every rocket had to have
its firing circuit inspected. The tanks' contents and pressure verified.
The air connection to Mike's space suit. The air pressure. The device
that made sure that air going to Mike's space suit was neither as hot
as metal in burning sunlight, nor cold as the chill of a shadow in
space.
Everything checked. Mike straddled his red-painted mount. Joe left the
lock and said curtly:
"Okay to pump the airlock. Okay to open airlock doors when ready. Go
ahead."
Mike went out, and Joe watched from a port in the Platform's hull. The
drone from Earth was five miles behind the Platform in its orbit, and
twenty miles below, and all of ten miles off-course. Joe saw Mike scoot
the red space wagon to it, stop short with a sort of cocky
self-assurance, hook on to the tow-ring in the floating space-barge's
nose, and blast off back toward the Platform with it in tow.
Mike had to turn about and blast again to check his motion when he
arrived. And then he and Haney--Haney in the other space wagon--nudged
at it and tugged at it and got it in the great spacelock. They went in
after it and the lock doors closed.
Neither Mike nor Haney were out of their space suits when Kent brought
Joe a note. A note was an absurdity in the Platform. But this was a
formal communication from Brown.
"_From: Lt. Comdr. Brown