Two pairs of eyes watched through the narrow pupil of the porthole as the thin cable unfolded in the darkness, stretching more and more, almost indistinguishable against the ghostly blue glow of Earth’s atmosphere. The graphite-gray strand emerging from the A-11 airlock had already gained full length, and the platform attached from below must have already reached the South American stratospheric port, flying a dozen kilometers above the planet’s surface. So, it would be no more than an hour or two before we descended.

«Has the guy changed his mind? Still want to risk it?» an elderly trembling voice cut through the quiet hum of the thirty-third compartment’s walkway zone.

«No. You can’t talk him out of it once he’s made up his mind,» the respondent said, not hiding a bit of regret. «You know… that’s why he’s here, if you think about it.»

«Yeah… What if… what if he makes it? After all, they do work on those costumes, Ars.»

His friend shrugged his shoulders. His cheekbone face, riddled with a mesh of wrinkles – the evidence of a tumultuous life – twisted into a grimace of doubt.