In a real suit, I knew, the air outlets inside the helmet were arranged in such a manner that cool, dry tank air played continually over the visor; this was what kept things clear. I hadn’t remembered this in time, however, and now I was paying the price. Patrice had taken advantage of the long, narrow shape of my head to route the plumbing off to my left, and the air was now blowing down my neck.
So that was the problem, sure enough. I’d done my troubleshooting, yes indeedy I had, and the very next time that I cobbled myself together a space suit out of sex toys and bondage gear I was quite sure that I’d get it right. But that didn’t help me here and now, not at all. You couldn’t exactly wipe off the inside of your visor, not in a pressure suit.
But I had to be able to see!
It was my air-jet cooling expedient that finally offered me a solution, though it was rather a desperate one. I was hardly the first person ever to foul the inside of a suit visor; space-sickness was the most common cause of this. One of the advantages of having a direct-exhaust type ventilation system was that the user could in theory dump the majority of the air in his suit in a hurry to clear it out, and then refill it out of his tanks and thus provide himself with a clean atmosphere. If I were to do this, I reasoned, it would probably clear my lenses and cool me down even further. Almost certainly it would, in fact, and had I been wearing a standard suit I’d have performed the drill in a heartbeat.
Rapidly depressurizing and then repressurizing a plastic sex suit while alone and far from an airlock, however, was something else entirely, no matter how sold the Dragon was on the toughness and integrity of the materials involved. Still, after a few moments of careful consideration, I didn’t see where I had much of a choice.
Reluctantly, I reached into my toolbox for the spare roll of tape, then suppressed a momentary stab of panic when I didn’t find it right under my fingertips. Had it drifted away when I’d pulled out the pliers or screwdriver? Then I located the familiar round shape, and pressed it against the hull where I could locate it easily at need. Then, I hyperventilated for a few breaths, opened my beak wide, and activated my spill valve.
I’d done this before in training, but somehow it just wasn’t the same. My suit went flaccid, the air roared, ice picks sank into my ears, my feathers felt like they were being ripped from their roots…
…and suddenly my lenses were clear; I could see the hull! And the roll of tape, clear as day!
I twisted my wrist savagely in the opposite direction, and the roaring lessened though the ice-picks pain continued, savage and brutal. Then all was still again.
Except for an ominous hissing, coming from I knew not where.
Instantly my training kicked in, and heedless of further suit-damage I twisted and writhed, trying to spot the little plume of air that would mark my leak. It was nowhere to be found, however, nowhere! Which meant that it was located either on my back or my helmet, if my instructors were to be believed. If it was my back, I was dead; there was no way that a suited man could patch his own back. If it were my helmet, however…
Carefully I felt around my head, and detected almost at once where the problem was coming from. It was right where I’d hit my head earlier! Apparently I’d scuffed the plastic almost through, and now it had failed. I tore off some tape, prayed that it would work in vacuum…
…and sighed in relief as it took hold immediately. It was good tape, I told myself as I applied layer after layer, very good tape indeed. Trust bondage types to be real connoisseurs.
Reflexively my eyes sought the air gauge at the bottom of my visor, as was standard procedure after a suit rupture or any other incidence of significant air loss. It wasn’t there, of course, and I began to feel very apprehensive about my air supply. There wasn’t anything I could do, however, short of tearing the tanks off of my back and looking at the gauges. So I decided that it simply didn’t matter how much air I had left. I would either finish my job, or else I would not. It was as simple as that.
Navigating was far easier with my eyes functional, and the improvised parasol worked very well indeed. Effortlessly I drifted from handhold to handhold up towards the center of what remained of the Henhouse, where the axis of rotation was located. We were spinning two ways, I determined as I drifted along. First, we were wheeling end over end rapidly enough to produce a noticeable acceleration at either end of the station. We were also pivoting slowly around our long axis, as well, though not quickly enough to really matter; I estimated that we were making perhaps three or four revolutions an hour. I was going to have to jump across open space to Aphrodite, and therefore it was essential that I move to the station’s axis before making my leap. The pod was going to be a difficult enough target without adding any more vectors into the equation than was needful. All the while my eyes continually sought out the reassuring sight of my hot-pink vessel nearly motionless against the stars. She still wasn’t too far away, I judged, maybe a klick or two.
Only four or five times as far as an experienced spaceman might reasonably attempt to jump under ideal conditions, with help standing by.
Well, at least Aphrodite was a big target.
Once I got to the axis, I took a moment to think things through one last time. Was there anything that I could do to maximize my chances? Had I ever learned anything about jumping other than aiming and taking my best shot? No, I decided reluctantly. All that I could do was take reasonable care, and trust to luck.
Very carefully, I sought the best, firmest footing I could find, making certain that one foot would have exactly as good a grip as the other. Then I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself in the suit, trying to determine where my center of gravity might be. There were the breasts to consider, as well as the toolbox and the length of chain; fortunately, I was already used to the tanks from training and would account for them naturally. Next I re-opened my eyes and fixed them not just on Aphrodite, but on the huge chicken logo painted onto her side. The hen wore lipstick, I noted; the painted lips became my bullseye. Slowly I closed my eyes again, picturing myself landing right up against those lips over and over again, smack, smack, smack. I bent my legs, then used the leverage of a convenient handhold to press myself firmly against the hull. Next I lined my parasol up against the target, exposing myself to the sun for a moment, but also lining the umbrella up with my center of gravity. I couldn’t see my target through the immature solar cell, but that no longer mattered. I knew exactly where those lovely lips where.
Then I pressed my feet against the hull, hard, and launched myself into space.
VIII
For a very long time, I thought that I was actually going to make it. The Aphrodite grew steadily larger and larger, and squint though I might I could not detect any bearing shift. It looked as if I was dead on course. Then as I drew closer, I watched first one and then a second star eclipse itself behind my pod’s hull. There was cross-drift, even though it was not enough to be readily detectable, and I was going to miss.
Unless I did something about it.
But what? There was very little that I could throw away. I was reluctant to part with my tools until I was safe inside the pod, and the same went for the whip and the rope. They had proven themselves extremely useful so far, and I had no reason whatsoever to believe that things were going to be any better on the outside of the pod. Nor could I spare the parasol, unless I wanted to roast once more and fog up my lenses again. In training I’d been taught that boots were always good for reaction mass in situations like this, but I was wearing none. That left exactly one option, an alternative I did not like at all.