"You won't get far, trying to read the code I have those papers written in," he warned. "You'd better talk this over before you make a mistake." "Ain't no mistake about it," said Peters, pressing toward the outer hatch. "So you chartered the rocket. You felt you oughta go out to see about a heavy dust particle hitting the hull. You fell off an' we never found you." "How will you explain not going yourself? Or not finding me by instruments?" Peters clubbed Tremont's foot from the tank rack he had hooked with the toe. "How could I go? Leave the ship without a pilot? An' the screens are for pickin' up meteorites far enough out to mean somethin' at the speeds they travel. So you were too close to register, leastways till it was way too late. You must have suffocated when your air ran out." Tremont scrabbled about with his feet for some kind of hold. The outer hatch began to open. He could see stars out there. "Wait!" shouted Tremont. It was too late. He felt himself shoot forward as if Peters had thrust a foot into the small of his back and shoved. Tremont tried to grab at the edge of the air lock, but it was gone. A puff of air frosted about him, its human bullet. * * * * * The stars spun slowly before his eyes. After a moment, the gleaming hull of the _Annabel_ swam into his field of view. It was already thirty feet away and the air lock was closing. He caught a glimpse of a spacesuited figure with the light behind it. Then he was looking at the stars again. The small, distant brilliance of Alpha Centauri made him squint in the split second before the suit's photoelectric cells caused filters to flip down before his eyes. Then it was stars again, and the filters retracted. "They can't do this!" said Tremont. "_Peters!_ Do you hear me? You can't get away with this!" There was no answer. The rocket came into view again, farther away. He had to get back somehow. Forgetting the bound position of his hands, he attempted to check his belt equipment. Holding his arms as far as possible from his body was not enough to let him get a look at the harness from within his helmet. He tugged violently at the cord holding the thumbs of his gauntlets, and thought it gave slightly. _Maybe it just tightened_, he thought. To free his hands, he drew his arms in through the wide armpits of the suit sleeves, built that way to enable the wearer to feed himself, wipe his brow, or adjust clothing or heating units within the suit. He felt more comfortable but that got him nowhere except for the chance to consult his wrist watch. Set at the lunar time of Centauri VII-4, it told him that when he had gone out of the airlock five minutes before the time had been 17:36. It did not strike Tremont as being a very promising bit of data--warning him merely that when he began to feel the want of air, it would be about 21:30. He longed for a pen-knife.