It was in sight.
I fell on all fours and my lungs whooped.
I crawled. The frost gathered on my lips, icicles hung from my moustache and beard, I was white with the freezing atmosphere.
I was a dozen yards from it. My eyes had become dim. "Lie down," screamed despair, "lie down!"
I touched it and halted. "Too late!" screamed despair, "lie down!"
I fought stiffly with it. I was on the manhole lip, a stupefied, half dead being. The snow was all about me. I pulled myself in. There lurked within a little warmer air. The snowflakes—the airflakes—danced in about me, as I tried with chilling hands to thrust the valve in and spin it tight and hard. I sobbed, "I will." I chattered on my teeth. And then with fingers that quivered and felt brittle I turned to the shutter studs.
As I fumbled with the switches—for I had never controlled them before—I could see dimly through the steaming glass, the blazing red streamers of the sinking sun, dancing and flickering through the snowstorm and the black forms of the scrub thickening and bending and breaking beneath the accumulating snow. Thicker whirled the snow and thicker, black against the light. What if even now the switches overcame me?
Then something clicked under my hands and in an instant that last vision of the moon world was hidden from my eyes. I was in the silence and darkness of the inter-planetary sphere.
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