A few minutes later, they opened the inner hatch of the air lock and shoved Tremont inside. Peters followed, gripping him firmly about the knees from behind.
"Here we go!" grunted Peters, and Tremont realized that he could communicate again, over their suit radios.
"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.
