Far from Home | Page 8

of the Earth, transformed by a weird illusion of position
from a bright goal to an enormous, distorted thing, looming, apparently,
over him with glowing menace, spurred his flagging resolution to
frantic activity.
He jetted straight back trailing his string of chutes behind him, then,
before the last was free of the cylinder, kicked himself around to
assume the original course once more.
At this stage it was no longer possible, even granted the time, to judge
visually how near he was to the atmosphere. The uneasy feeling that he
must already be brushing the Troposphere jarred his nerve so that he
merely gave himself a short flat-out boost in the right direction before
spinning bodily one hundred eighty degrees so that he was traveling
feet first.
Reflected in the curved helmet face, the string of chutes obediently
followed-my-leader around a ragged U-shape, the last--the small
pilot-chute trailed limply around as he watched.
There could surely be but a few seconds left before the grand finale.
Johnny found he was unconsciously holding his breath, and, as he
deliberately inhaled long slow draughts of his already staling air,
realized abstractly that he seemed to be attempting to meet his possible

end with some degree of dignity if not with resignation, and wondered
if he were the exception or the rule.
Possibly, he thought sardonically, because there is so little room for
dignity in our living years, and was mildly surprised at an
uncharacteristic excursion into the realm of philosophy.
There was a faintly perceptible tug on the harness. It was sustained and
now there came a definite strain. Reflected for a moment in the helmet
face was a glimpse of the lead chute slowly opening out like a gigantic
flower.
Then swiftly, in half a breath the harness coils were tightening about
him like steel fingers, the heavy ring at the end of the master shroud
clashed against the back of his helmet and began a sickening,
thrumming vibration there.
The harness encompassed his torso like a vise but his legs were
unsupported and weighed what seemed a thousand tons. He could feel
them stretching. Somewhere a coil slipped a fraction. His arms were
jerked suddenly upwards and Johnny knew a sensation he'd never
believed possible. At the same time his leaden feet crashed down on the
jet pedals. For a few, brief, blessed moments the intolerable extension
eased a fraction with the firing of the suit jets.
He cringed mentally from the thought of what was to come and thought
hazily: "This is what the rack was like. This is going to be bad, bad,
bad!"
It was impossible and Johnny went out with the last drop of fuel.
* * * * *
Somewhere there was a queer coughing sound like wind through a
crevice. He strained to identify it but an awful agony swamped him and
he fled before it back into the darkness.
And later still a thumping and a rushing, gurgling sound.

* * * * *
Dim, grotesque figures moved about him or swooped and hovered over
him. He felt an unreasoning fear of them and tried to shut them out.
They were holding him down, hurting him. One was pulling and
twisting at his arm. He shouted and swore at it telling it to leave him
alone, but it ignored him or didn't seem to hear. There was a sudden
dull snapping sound and a little of the pain abated.
The figures flowed together and swirled around like some great oily
vortex but never quite left him.
Then there was a time when they separated jerkily and became the hazy
but definable figures of men in rough seaman's clothes. Johnny had
never heard Breton French before; in his dazed condition the apparently
insane gabble might well have been the tongue of another world and
gave him little assurance. He hurt so badly and so generally that he
could not have determined that he was lying down save for a view of
white clouds scudding overhead.
Some of the men were holding up what looked like a crumpled parody
of a man. He recognized it without surprise as the soaking remains of
his spacesuit, battered and with tattered shreds of outer cover and
insulation hanging in festoons.
A sharp, bearded face shot into focus abruptly, waving a hypodermic
needle. It spoke English and observed passionately either to Johnny or
itself that: "Name of a Spanish cow! What is it in men that they must
abuse themselves so? Now here is one who was both squeezed and
stretched alternately as well as hammered, dehydrated and almost
asphyxiated, is it not? This will bear watching. It is alive but there will
have to be X-rays in profusion."
It danced long sensitive fingers over the welts and bruises and
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