from the drum, letting it spread like a long wisp of silvery cobweb
against the stars, letting it inflate from the air-flasks to a firm and
beautiful circle, attaching the rigging, the fine, radial
spokewires--for which the blastoff drum itself now formed the hub. To
the latter he now attached his full-size, sun-powered ionic motor. Then
he crept through the double sealing flaps of the airlock, to install the
air-restorer and the moisture-reclaimer in the circular, tunnel-like
interior that would now be his habitation.

He wasn't racing anything except time, but he had worked as fast as he
could. Still, Gimp Hines had finished rigging his bubb, minutes ahead of
Frank, or anybody else. On second thought, maybe this was natural
enough. Here, where there was no weight, his useless leg made no
difference--as the space-fitness examiners must have known. Besides,
Gimp had talented fingers and a keen mechanical sense, and had always
tried harder than anybody.

Ramos was almost as quick. Frank wasn't much farther behind. The Kuzaks
were likewise doing all right. Two-and-Two was trailing some, but not
very badly.

"Spin 'em!" Gimp shouted. "Don't forget to spin 'em for
centrifuge-gravity and stability!"

And so they did, each gripping the rigging at their bubb rims, and using
the minute but accumulative thrust of the shoulder ionics of their
Archers, to provide the push. The inflated rings turned like wheels with
perfect bearings. In the all but frictionless void, they could go on
turning for decades, without additional impetus.

"We've made it--we're Out Here--we're all right!" Ramos was shouting
with a fierce exultation.

"Shut up, Ramos!" Frank Nelsen yelled back. "Don't ever say that, too
soon. Look around you!"

Storey and Reynolds were still struggling with their bubbs. They had
been delayed by trying to quiet Dave Lester, who now floated in a
drugged stupor, lashed to his blastoff drum.

Slowly, pushed by their shoulder ionics, Gimp, Ramos and Frank Nelsen
drifted over to see what they could do for Lester.

He was vaguely conscious, his eyes were glassy, his mouth drooled watery
vomit.

"What do you want us to do, Les?" Frank asked gently. "We could put you
back in one of the rockets. You'd be brought back to the spaceport, when
they are guided back by remote control."

"I don't know!" Lester wailed in a hoarse voice. "Fellas--I don't know!
A little falling is all right... But it goes on all the time. I can