“All right,” he said. “One more chance. I’m going through that hatch, Baker. I’m getting into that taxi down there, and it’s taking me to the Moon rocket. I don’t want any interference, understand? I don’t want any more of your clowning.”
“I’m not clowning, Ja…”
“Shut up! I’m doing the talking now. I’ve listened to enough of your juvenile garbage. If you take one step toward this hatch, I’ll…”
His voice trailed off as Ted pushed both legs against the supply tube, shoving his way across the lock.
“Why, you…” Jack shouted. He swung the helmet at the end of his left hand, bringing it up toward Ted’s head. Ted saw the glint of metal as the heavy helmet lunged for him. He stuck both hands out ahead of him, pushed his body away from the swinging metal.
Jack bounced on the deck, his legs bending. He sprang upright again, the helmet swinging back for another blow.
“I warned you, Baker.
Ted saw the murderous glint of metal again as the helmet swung in its dizzy arc. He drew back his fist and pushed himself away from the bulkhead, uncorking the fist at the same time.
The forward momentum of Jack’s swing carried him right into Ted’s flashing fist, and it collided against his jaw with shattering force. His fingers opened wide, and the helmet drifted harmlessly across the compartment. His eyes went blank then as he flipped over on his back. He hung on the air like a swimmer floating without water.
“Jack!” Ted said, his voice shaking.
He pushed himself over to the floating figure, shook the shoulder inside the space suit. Together, they drifted down toward the hatch.
“Jack!”
And then, from the bulkhead speaker, like an echo of Ted’s words, the voice repeated, “Jack Talbot, report to Moon rocket immediately.” There was urgency in the voice now, urgency bordering on panic. “Now hear this. Now hear this. Jack Talbot, repeat, Jack Talbot, report to Moon rocket immediately!”
Ted looked around the compartment frantically. The rocket! If it left without a fifth man…
He felt his heart leap up into his throat, settle there like a flaming firebrand.
He had to stop them. They had to know about Jack. He had to stop blastoff.
His eyes hastily scanned the bulkheads, pausing on the neat rows of space suits and helmets. Without hesitation, he leaped against one of the bulkheads, jackknifing his legs and pushing off toward the suits. He yanked one free from the brackets, watched it unfold of its own volition.
With trembling fingers, he pulled the suit over his clothes. He was bathed in sweat now, and his tongue was a fuzzy caterpillar, swollen and dry in his mouth.
He had to stop blastoff. He had to stop that rocket before it was too late!
He ripped a helmet from the bulkhead, set it in place on his shoulders and fumbled with the toggles that would clasp it to the shoulder plate of the suit. He finally secured them, his free hand fumbling with the oxygen knob at his waist. He twisted the knob, adjusting the flow of oxygen into the suit. He took a gulp of the sweet air, then shoved his fist against the bulkhead, his hands feeling big and clumsy inside the thick gloves. He drifted to the deck and seized the hatch wheel, twisting it almost instantly. He heard the mechanism click, and then he swung the hatch up. His blood pounded in his ears.
Quickly, he dropped through the hatch and shoved himself toward the waiting space taxi.
A distorted voice sounded inside his helmet as soon as he dropped through the hatch. “Hurry it up, boy! Those guys on the rocket are likely tearing their hair by this time.” The voice, despite its distortion, couldn’t have belonged to anyone but a Southerner. Somehow, the mellow inflection took away from the urgency of his words.
Ted reached the taxi and climbed into the open top. The taxi was wedged tightly in the landing berth, sealing the Station from the pressure outside.
“Come on, boy, we’re late,” the voice said again.
Ted looked at the face plate of the helmet that was craned over the front seat of the taxi. The plate was darkened, and he could not make out the features behind it. He realized with sudden understanding that his own face was unrecognizable. He knew then that the pilot had probably mistaken him for Jack.
“Look,” he said into his helmet transmitter, “I’m not…”
“My friend,” the Southern voice drawled, “no excuses, please. If I don’t get you to that rocket in ten seconds flat, I’ll be back Earthside so fast…” He didn’t finish his sentence. He seemed to remember he was wasting time talking, and he stabbed his forefinger at a button in the instrument panel. Ted heard the whine of the jets behind him as the small rocket leaped away from the landing berth.