He felt: Here is the cargo module. Now how do I get into it? When he discovered that he could not get into the cargo module via either of the hatches, he did not feel fear. He felt: What is another way that I can get into it? He kept moving his hands, moving like a spider across the face of it, from handle to handle, edge to edge, seeking a new idea. His white suit wrinkled at his joints, making bent tubes for his body parts to be in. His helmet dome reflected the surface of the module, reproducing it in golden tones. Both of the hatches were locked. He had failed to consider this outcome. The cargo module itself was about the size of a box on a semi truck. It had been shot into lunar orbit unmanned, using an unprecedented amount of fuel, and had found its orbit without incident. Now here it was up in space, in the blackness hung with stars, where there was no wind to whistle through its latches, no air to breathe, no song to sing. Maxon let go of the handle, and he did not fall off or spin away, but just hung there, drifting.
