The cycling procedure seemed slow. Charlie sat listening to his heartbeat. Saber had been right: Breathing quickly became a conscious effort.

A green light blinked on and the outer hatch swung open. He looked out into the void, expecting, despite what Saber had said, to be hit by a frigid wave. But he observed no immediate change in temperature. His nervousness ebbed and he looked out at the universe with a surprising degree of calm. No one gets to be vice president without developing a strong sense of self-confidence along the way, and a capability for responding under extreme pressure. These qualities, of which Charlie had not been particularly conscious, were nevertheless present, and they now came to his rescue.

He looked around and saw Tony's body, still quietly adrift.

Hauling him in would take time. And Charlie knew better than anyone, feeling the air in his lungs expand, that time was not on his side. Better to take his chances without the safety line and get on with it. Get Tony later. There was no safety to be had under present conditions, and it seemed the height of imprudence to risk himself pursuing it. He exhaled, heard the bag crackle, and leaned out of the airlock.

There was a handhold immediately to his left. He looked for more, and saw them spaced evenly at about two-foot intervals in both directions, up toward the blister and down toward the cargo deck.

It was an odd sensation, looking out and feeling no movement, knowing they were not anchored, seeing nothing below but void. He pushed the thought aside, seized the handgrip, and swung himself onto the face of the hull. He'd never liked heights, but this wasn't at all the same. The experience was easier than he'd anticipated, and he moved almost casually down the ladder. It occurred to him that he hadn't been very hopeful, walking into the airlock with his plastic bag, his straw, and his paper clip. But now his confidence soared.

Which reminded him: He'd stopped breathing. He exhaled, and his lungs refilled with no effort on his part.

Exhale.

He was warm. Getting warmer.

He kept moving. The broken tread came into view, and he could see the engine nozzle and the cargo deck hatch, which looked as if it had been jimmied partway open. He got to it quickly, tested the handle, pulled on it, and found no give.

But there was room for his fingers between the lip of the hatch and the seating. He shifted position, let go of the handgrip, got hold of the underside of the hatch with both hands, planted his feet against the hull, and pulled.

Nothing.

He tried again with the wrench and felt movement.

Okay. Progress.

He went after it, straining until sinews cracked. Sweat drenched the lining of the g-suit. A vapor formed across the inside of the bag and he had to stop. What had Evelyn said? Both vision and brain would fog? Maybe. But after this, he'd be the reigning authority on the subject.

He loosened the paper clip. Pressure forced air out through the straw.

The bag cleared.

He was about to begin again when a bank of lights, some spaced along the middle of the sphere, others near the treads, blinked on. They went off and came on again.

Count to five and start the engine.

Son of a bitch. He swung back to his handholds and grabbed for dear life.

He wasn't watching the nozzle, but he saw the glare from ignition on the metal in front of his face. In the same instant, the sudden acceleration threw him hard against the hull and tried to tear his arm out of his shoulder. Suddenly there was a down, very distinctly, and he dangled on the outside of the Micro, over an infinite precipice.

He clung to the handhold. Agony lanced through fingers and shoulders. He tried to cut a deal with whatever power governed the universe.

The grips had depressions, and he tried to find one with his foot so he could stand. Relieve some of the pressure. Don't forget to exhale. His wrench began to slide out of his belt.

He found a foothold, let go briefly with one hand, and repositioned the wrench.

Then the burn stopped and he was afloat again.

He didn't know whether it was over. They hadn't thought to make an all-clear signal, so he hung on, waiting. His legs drifted away from the hull.

He had to force himself to let go with one hand. He rubbed his shoulder and then, cautiously, let go with the other and repositioned himself over the hatch. He watched the lights the whole time.

They did not come on.

Exhale.

He waited for feeling to return to his arms, and then inserted the wrench under the hatch and pulled on it. If he'd worked feverishly before, he now applied himself with desperation. He felt springs pop and the wrench slipped and he banged his hand, but he ignored it and continued to work.

The hatch gave. And broke loose. Micro Flight Deck. 3:41 A.M.

The voice snarled at her. "He's where?"

"Outside."

"Outside the ship?"

"That is affirmative."

"For God's sake-who am I talking to?"

"The pilot."

"What's your name, pilot?"

"Rolnikaya."

"Okay, Rolnikaya. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You get the vice president back inside. Now. Tell him Mr. Kerr wants to talk with him."

"At the moment he's busy, Mr. Kerr. I'll tell him when he comes in." She broke the connection.

8.

Micro, outside the Cargo Deck. 3:42 A.M.

Charlie pushed past the hatch, slipped into the airlock, and collapsed. He was breathing hard, literally panting, fogging the bag. He released the paper clip again, cautiously, remembering the warning about nosebleed. The bandanna was drenched.

Saber was right: It felt like a sauna. That was odd. He'd always assumed space was cold.

There was a status display on the bulkhead, and it had power. He found the white presspad, took a deep breath, and pushed. To his delight, the inner hatch opened.

Lights were still on inside.

Bigfoot's body, clothed in the p-suit, floated near the ladder, to which it was tethered. The suit looked broken and there were globules of blood drifting through the chamber. Charlie realized that every time Saber ran the engine, the body was slammed against the ladder.

He'd have liked to stop and secure it. But he felt extraordinarily weary. His bag wouldn't clear up, so he was having trouble making out details around him. And he suspected some of the blood was inside the bag.

It was hard to concentrate. Something touched his arm and his hair stood upright.

Bigfoot's helmet.

His hand closed on it and he had to think.

Hold on to it.

The locker. Where was the locker? He tried to remember. The part of his mind that remained clear seemed to be shrinking into a corner back in his head somewhere, somewhat like the effect that nitrous oxide produces in a dentist's office. He tried to fight it off. It occurred to him that he could no longer see the outside warning lights. But Saber could use the intercom to speak directly to C deck.

Right?

But there was no air. No medium to carry the sound.

There were three lockers, she'd said. It was in the middle one. He pushed past tanks, cables, shelving. Feeling his way.

He turned a corner. Drifted off the deck. Found a handhold, the side of a storage bin, something, and pulled himself back. And in this tortuous manner, half-blinded, operating out of a state that was neither rational nor deluded, he found the storage cabinets.

He opened the middle one and felt the suit. And another helmet. Take both. Bigfoot's might be damaged. Wouldn't want to have to do this again. No sir. This was too much even for the vice president of the United States. He wrapped the helmets in the suit.