by Phil Geusz
Meanwhile Patrice had produced what looked like a fairly workable space helmet. I watched her as she tested the fittings with a few drops of shampoo, and nodded vigorously at the results. One of the connections released a tiny string of bubbles, but the leak was on the exhaust side anyhow. It wouldn't really matter; in fact, I'd worn several commercial suits whose plumbing leaked considerably more. Patrice had slathered on another layer of fixative anyway, and then reinforced the connections with yet more tape. Then she anchored the hose so that it wouldn't flop around and work loose. When I finally tried the hood on, there was just enough slack to allow me to turn my head slightly.
"He won't be able to move his head much anyway," the Dragon observed with a rare nod of approval. "Not once we seal his neck."
That was the worst job of all, as expected. As I began consuming my forty-five minute supply of canned air, the girls went wild with tape and latex, then employed a hair-dryer to set everything up. Once more Jeanine got out her shampoo bottle and tested for leaks. "I've got a few bubbles in the back," Patrice observed. More tape and latex followed, and then the improvised suit passed its retest. The Dragon produced two mismatched flashlights from somewhere, and they were turned on and then taped to the top of my head, pointing roughly in the direction I was facing.
Marie had been made responsible for putting together an improvised EVA kit for me; there was supposed to be one just outside the airlock hatch, but after the blow we'd taken I could no longer count on its being there. Once I was certified airtight she placed a spare roll of tape in my toolbox, strapped it onto the tank harness that had been salvaged from the main suit, and chained everything into place with four or five pairs of handcuffs. Then she draped a coil of black silk rope over my shoulder, settling it in between my still-impressive false breasts. "I think he's ready," she declared.
"I think so too," the Dragon agreed. "Any last-minute ideas?"
I looked around the Control Room, thinking rapidly. One tool that I was certain would come in handy outside was a gaff, a long pole-like gadget with a hook on one end. What could I use for a gaff? Finally my eyes settled on the Dragon's whip. It would not be perfect for the job, I decided, but it might help some. Very slowly and carefully I reached out and removed it from her belt. For an instant her face hardened and I thought that she was going to slap my hand away, then she nodded and handed it over. "Very well," she said resignedly. "I accept the need."
Carefully I coiled the whip and shoved it under the handcuffs, where it would be available for immediate use. Then, there being no way for me to communicate effectively anyway, I stepped into the airlock, took a grip on the railing, and cycled it before my courage could fail me.
The suit stiffened up immediately as the friendly air around me bled away to the terrible nothingness of space, making little popping and stretching noises all the while. Normal suits didn't make a sound when exposed to vacuum, and my heart did flip-flops at every tiny reminder of just exactly how utterly insane this little stunt truly was. I remained in the lock for about a full minute, I judged, waiting to see if my suit would explode the way that I expected it to at any second. It didn't, however, and in time I grew confident enough to open the outer door.
The area outside the hatchway on my left was indeed an utter wreck, as expected. The EVA kits were missing, and a large area of hull was scorched and battered. Out in the middle of this scorched and battered area three luridly colored phalluses extended, marking the location of our earlier repair job. The shafts appeared more ludicrous than obscene from this side of the pressure hull, extending stiffly out into space as if terribly aroused by all the damage. Carefully I flexed all my joints, first very slightly and then as far as I dared. Again the suit held, much to my surprise, though my motions were more limited than I would have liked. This was especially true of my head.
Because the Henhouse was tumbling, the airlock's exit was definitely "down", though the acceleration was very slight. However, that direction was always "down" due to the station's normal spin, and the handgrips had been set up accordingly. Using great care, I let my hands slide down the railing until I was at the bottom, and dangling with only my heavily taped feet between deep space and me.
It was at this point that I really began to sweat, literally as well as figuratively. Normally EVA's are never done without another qualified spacer ready and standing by to help. Even more, they are never done without employing either some kind of jetpack or else extensive safety ropes utilizing specially designed clips and fittings. I had neither available to me; the EVA harness had been stored with the other gear in the now-missing locker, and the Henhouse had never generated enough EVA's to justify the expense of a jetpack.
I hadn't bothered to tell the ladies about this part, there being no need for them to worry about something they could do absolutely nothing about.
I did, however, have available to me a length of black silk rope and a whip; for a moment I stood out in the sunlight and considered how best to employ them. It would be easy enough, I judged, to tie myself to an anchor point, travel the length of the rope, tie it again, and then go back and release my first knot. It would be safe enough, as well, considering the circumstances. The process would take far too long, however, given how far I had to travel and how much air I probably had left. So, clicking my beak in concentration, I decided to break those last few remaining rules that I'd left intact, and freehand my way across the Henhouse without a safety line.
It wasn't so hard at first. The phalluses provided my first handholds, and I swung past them easily and onto the Henhouse's main endbrace. This was an I-beam that ran conveniently along my path towards the Solar Farm, and I used its bottom ledges as a highway for my hands.
By the time I reached the beam's end, I knew that we'd failed to foresee a serious problem. My eye-lenses were fogging up! Underneath all of the rubber and tape, I was sweating profusely in my non-reflective suit. It was far worse than I'd imagined that it would be. The black hood I was wearing served as a virtual magnet for solar radiation. My whole head was beginning to ache with the heat, and I knew that I didn't have long at all to improvise some kind of shade for myself.
The Solar Farm was my best hope for doing exactly that. The Farm was typical of all such installations, the place where we grew new solar cells out of silicon and the like. One of my regular jobs was to harvest the new cells every so often, when a new crop was ripe, and convey then to Lagrange for sale as a small secondary source of income. Therefore, I knew the farm area well, though I usually approached from another angle.
It was just as well; by the time I got to the Farm I was virtually blind, and even under the fogging my eyes were red and burning from the perspiration that was continually getting into them. Any sane EVA would have ended long since; poor visibility is more than enough excuse for an abort. I didn't have that option, however, and when my fingertips finally reached the end of the beam I hung there in the microgravity for just a moment and tried to think things through. The cells grew on long stems, I knew, stems that could serve as parasol handles in a pinch. But by now I was totally blind, and thrash around though I might, I couldn't feel anything except smooth, featureless hull anywhere around me. Carefully I closed my stinging eyes and concentrated; the farm had to be just ahead of me on my right, I knew. It simply had to be!
There wasn't anything else to do. If I stayed where I was, I would die. If I went back, we would all die. If I jumped and took my best guess at where I was going, we all might live.
So I pulled myself up onto the beam and jumped.
My long chicken-toes felt very awkward and confined in their human-shaped prison; I could not even have walked in normal gravity. Despite the discomfort I lined myself up as best I could, and gently shoved myself away from the I-beam in what I knew simply must be the right direction. Then I extended my arms and legs fully, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was growing very warm indeed inside my hot-pink doub
le-breasted space suit, I realized dully as time passed and passed and passed without my encountering anything. At least I'd probably be unconscious with heat stroke before I ran out of air, as near as I could figure it. Then I could drift eternally in free orbit, a real prize for anyone who found me dressed as I was. It would be a fitting enough end for the Pussy Pilot, I told myself as eon after endless eon crept by. "Look over here, Elmer! Lookie here at what I found! You ain't gonna believe this shit!"
Then, long after I'd given up, something brushed up against my left fingertips. Instantly I was in action, rolling hard in that direction and flailing, flailing, flailing…
…yet encountering nothing once more.
My breath was coming in sobs, I suddenly realized, and I was so frightened that I was about to foul myself. I was panicked, utterly panicked, and nothing kills in space more efficiently than panic. Quite deliberately I froze in position and took several long, deep breaths of good, fresh air. Then, I tried to look at my position rationally.
I had not merely imagined feeling something solid, I knew for certain. Or at least it was safe to assume that I hadn't, since if I were that far-gone I was dead anyway. Therefore, I was probably floating very near the Henhouse, most likely just where I expected to be, near the Solar Farm. The Dragon's whip was still exactly where I'd stashed it; moving slowly and deliberately despite the ever-increasing heat I brandished it to explore the area around me.
On one toss, I distinctly felt the whipcord strike something.
I ran the whip through my fingers until I located its wickedly thin end. Then I gripped it firmly and whirled the handle about my head, bolo-style. Clumsily I released the handle at just about the point where I imagined that the Henhouse was…
…missing cleanly.
Once more I whirled the handle and released it; this time, however, I was rewarded. Though I thought that I'd missed once more, when I tried to pull the handle in I came up short. Though the resulting jerk nearly yanked the whip out of my hands, I managed to hold on, slowly drifting towards my goal.
Eventually I hit and hit hard, bruising my head through the soft improvised helmet. It was worth it, though, for just before I struck the hull everything went black. I'd found shade!
Once more I scrabbled around me with all four limbs, trying to figure out exactly where I was. My left foot encountered a tall, narrow sort of pole, which felt to me just like the stem of a growing solar cell. Moving very carefully in the dark, I turned end-for-end and explored the object with my hands. Yes, I decided, it simply had to be a cell. I reached into my tool kit and pulled out the pliers, then used them to strike a carefully judged blow to the stem's base. It broke free, and I knew that at last I had my umbrella.
Because of the fact that spacewalks were so routine in the Farm, there were plenty of handholds scattered conveniently about. Though I was still a bit disoriented, the cells grew in perfect rows and I was able to follow them easily enough. Eventually I came to the end of the Farm, which unless I was a full hundred and eighty degrees off in my estimates placed me just outside the girls' living quarters. Here I stopped to think things through.
I was blind, totally and completely blind. Even worse, though I was finally out of the sun I was still far, far too hot. It takes considerable time for heat to radiate away in the vacuum of space, and time was something that I didn't have very much of. If I didn't find a way to cool off, and soon, then I would die before finishing my work. It was as simple as that.
But how?
My mind spun idly as I hung there in space and sweated, sweated, sweated. I'd have been dead long since, I realized dully, if I hadn't been made over into a chicken. The docs always improved the patient's body as much as possible as a matter of routine when extensive transmutation was undertaken, and I was no exception. I had better than perfect eyesight and hearing, the speed and stamina of an Olympian, and the constitution of an ox. Right at the moment, for the very first time, it was well worth having the constitution of an ox in exchange for the appearance of a chicken. Still, I had to cool myself down, and soon. A standard spacesuit, I knew, accomplished this by evaporation. Was there any way that I could gain access to liquids from this side of the hull?
Hmm. Not that I could think of.
But gasses were fluids too, weren't they? And they could cool too….
Carefully I reached into my tool kit and pulled out a screwdriver. I didn't like what I was about to do, didn't like it at all. It was dangerous as hell, for me as well as for anyone who might be on the other side of the hull. But what choice did I have? I was hot, and I craved a cooldown like a drug addict craves his fix.
First, I took a moment to tie myself to the nearest handhold. Then I grasped the screwdriver firmly…
…and drove it right through the thin hullmetal!
A jet of air rushed out immediately, and I placed myself directly in front of it so as to get the maximum effect. The cold, expanding air felt wonderful, even through the layers of tape and rubber between it and me. It reminded me a garden hose on a hot summer afternoon back on Earth, or of an ice pack pressed into my belly. All too soon the airflow shut off as the room beyond was emptied and the automatic hatches sealed off the hull breach, so again and then a third time I crawled across the hull and created new leaks, feeling a little better each time. It was damned expensive air-conditioning, yes. But it was air conditioning all the same, and that was what mattered.
I was still pretty hot after wasting three suites worth of air, though not nearly so bad as I'd been. More important, however, my head was now clearer, and I was shaded under a parasol. I was free to begin dealing with what I feared was by far the more difficult of my two problems. My helmet lenses were still badly fogged up. I was as blind as a bat. And I couldn't possibly jump out to Aphrodite if I couldn't see her.
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 s
ame. 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.
