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The other emergency resources were of the same high standards.
There was water in a two-liter drinking tank at the pilot's position-almost
full. No reserve. But nothing to worry about as there was no reserve air, and we
would suffocate in stale air before we could die of thirst. The air scavenger
still was not working but there was a fitting to crank it by hand-all but the
crank handle, which was missing. Food? Let's not joke. But Gwen had a Hershey
bar in her purse; she broke it in three and shared it. Delicious!
Pressure suits and helmets occupied most of the storage space back of the
passenger couches-four of each, correct by the book. They were military surplus
rescue suits, still sealed in their original cartons. Each carton was marked
with contractor's name (Michelin Tires, S.A.) and date (twenty-nine years ago).
Aside from the fact that the plasticizers would have bled out of all
plastomers and elastomers-hoses, gaskets, etc.- in that time, and the fact that
some roguish japester had neglected to supply air bottles, these pressure suits
were just dandy. For a masquerade ball.
Nevertheless I was prepared to trust my life to one of these clown suits
for five minutes, or even ten, if the alternative involved exposing my bare face
to vacuum.
But if the alternative was merely rassling a grizzly bear, I'd holler,
"Bring on your b'ar!"
Captain Marcy called us, told us that a satellite camera showed us to be at
thirty-five degrees seventeen north, fourteen degrees oh seven west
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