"I've thought about it," Anti replied soberly. "On the other hand, I've thought about the asteroid." "All right," said Jordan. Docchi nodded. Nona bobbed her head; it was doubtful that she knew what she was agreeing to. "Let's have some telecom viewers outside," said Docchi. "One directly in back, one on each side. We've got to know what's happening." Jordan went to the control panel and flipped levers. "They're out and working," he said, gazing at the screen. "Now, Anti, go to the freight lock. Close your helmet and wait. I'll let the air out slowly. The pressure change will be gradual. If anything seems wrong, let me know over the helmet radio and I'll yank you in immediately. Once you're outside I'll give you further instructions. Tools and equipment are in a compartment that opens into space." Anti waddled away. Jordan looked down at his legless body. "I suppose we have to be realistic about it--" "We do," answered Docchi. "Anti is the only one of us who has a chance of doing the job and surviving." Jordan adjusted a dial. "It was Cameron who was responsible for it. If Anti doesn't come back, you can be damn sure he'll join her." "No threats, please," said Docchi. "When are you going to let her out?" "She's out," said Jordan. Deliberately, he had diverted their attention while he had taken the burden of emotional strain. Docchi glanced hastily at the telecom. Anti was hanging free in space, wrapped and strapped in strips torn from the useless spacesuits--that, and more flesh than any human had ever borne. The helmet sat jauntily on her head; the oxygen cylinder was strapped to her back. She was still intact. "How is she?" he asked anxiously, unaware that the microphone was open. "Fine," came Anti's reply, faint and ready. "The air's thin, but it's pure oxygen." "Cold?" asked Docchi. "It hasn't penetrated yet. No worse than the acid, at any rate. What do I do?" Jordan gave her directions. The others watched. It was work to find the tools and examine the tubes for defectives, to loosen the tubes in the sockets and pull them out and push them spinning into space. It was still harder to replace them, though there was no gravity and Anti was held to the hull by magneslippers. But it seemed more than work. To Cameron, who was watching, an odd thought occurred: In her remote past, of which he knew nothing, Anti had done something like this before. Ridiculous, of course. Yet there was a rhythm to her motions, this shapeless giant creature whose bones would break with her weight if she tried to stand at even only half Earth gravity. Rhythm, a sense of purpose, a strange pattern, an incredible gargantuan grace. The whale plowing the waves is graceful; it cannot be otherwise in its natural habitat. The human race had produced, accidentally, one unlikely person to whom interplanetary space was not an alien thing. Anti was at last in her element.