As far as John could tell, the only way out would be through the duct. Its grate was about seven feet off the ground and he had no way of telling where it would lead; he shot a glance over his shoulder. The explosions were still muffled, but he swore they were getting louder by the minute; surely the docking bay – along with the emergency capsules, he thought – would be nothing now but bits of rubble mingling with the bigger rubble of the Ecker Belt. Asteroid work was supposed to be easy work. That's what the recruiters had told him, at least– zip off to space, mine some rocks bigger than the ship itself, pass Go and collect $200. The walls rattled. The explosions were definitely getting closer. John turned back to the grate and shuddered.
A couple of months in the ship would have been fine – he could swallow his claustrophobia for something like that. Besides, the ship was deceivingly big on the inside; he had almost grown to like the place, with its wide, arching ceilings and the corrugated steel that made up every wall or floor of square – except for the captain's own living space. But the captain was dead now, or would be soon. Perhaps, John thought wryly, it was his dormitory's walls, made of thinner sheet metal than those the rest of the ship's, that did him in; the first collision probably ripped through the walls like paper and the second just added insult to injury.
He had no desire to turn out like the captain.
He clambered onto the metal cabinet beneath the duct, using its handles to support his weight until he unsteadily swayed on top of it, reaching for the duct. Screws tightly sealed it in, but the cover itself was rusting and weakened. He slipped one of his gloves off and wrapped it around his right hand – if he broke his hand instead of the cover, he might be good as dead regarding his chance to escape. John braced himself and then thrust his fist through the cover; it tore right through with a screech as the cover scraped against the duct's inner walls. It was pitch black inside the duct – he could see maybe three, four feet inside at most. Already his animal instincts were screaming at him to run, flee, never come back, to throw himself into the explosion; just not this, anything but this! He moaned, and put his head into the duct.
He fit his arms in next, then his torso, and wriggled forward so he could propel himself off the top of the cabinet. His breath reflected hotly off the cold metal; at least he wouldn't have to worry about roasting to death. John reconsidered; until the explosions reach the ducts, at least. He struggled prone, arms pressed squarely against his body; only his elbows and shoulders could really move, so he relied on those to make his way forward. Every kick or ding against the duct's wall was amplified a thousand times. Queer tones rang in his ears with even the slightest movement. The bass thud of the explosions had quieted down too, but every few minutes – or was it hours? – something would rattle the vent. Suddenly, he stopped. There was no way of telling whether the duct would suddenly drop straight down; if he wasn't careful, his head would pulp on the way down like spoiled fruit and he would die like a rat caught in a trap. What a way to go! he thought. He continued forward, though his body didn't want to.
Unfortunately, in the dark, there was no way of telling how far he had gone, or how long he had been traveling. He'd tried scratching grooves into each wall as he passed, but he soon realized there was no point in doing so and stopped. His elbows had been weathered raw and his shoulders were bruised; he almost felt as if the passage was getting tighter. His lungs struggled to expand enough for a full breath. And even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw no more than several inches in front of him. But in the distance, he suddenly spotted a glimmer of light. It was no more than a pinprick, but it was light, by God, it was light.
Cursing his weak limbs, he wriggled forward, tasting the metallic tang of blood as the duct seemed to weigh heavier and heavier upon him. One way or another, he was sure that he'd reach the light.
