had thought nothing could
be worse than 6G found his mistake as the acceleration went up and up.
The ship was designed for four minutes' blasting, but if I were to save
fuel there was only one way to do it. That was to get off more quickly,
reach escape velocity, and stop blasting sooner, saving the fuel which
would have been needed to hold the ship up during the extra time.
I refused to think about the jet linings. They were designed for four
minutes' blast, presumably, and now they were being asked to take the
same thrust in less time.
I nearly blacked out. I screamed and hardly heard myself. You won't
understand how I felt physically unless the same kind of thing has
happened to you -- when you must and do remain conscious but you're so
near unconsciousness that perceptions sent along the nerve channels to
your brain simply don't leave any record there. You have to notice them
as they happen or you've lost them forever.
I strained my eyes at the dials in front of me, trying to make them
mean that I could cut the drive. They persisted in telling the truth,
which was no good to me. I saw why people sometimes strain to believe
something they know is false. There are times when hopeful fantasy is
much more attractive than hopeless fact.
At last I was able to cut the drive. It had been on for hours.
The chronometer said it was only three minutes or so, but I knew better.
It didn't stop cleanly, as it should, it eased off gently. The couch
gradually rose, and I floated off, weightless.
You never quite get used to free fall, no matter how often you experience
it. It's a surprise every time when up and down disappear from the
environment and the normal way of getting about ceases to be beetlelike
and becomes birdlike. It's amusing or frustrating, depending on how
you're feeling at the time, when you want to go one way and find yourself
going the other, impelled by some tiny movement of air you can't see
and normally wouldn't notice at all.
The body adjusts to the new conditions more quickly than the mind.
The lungs and heart and stomach, puzzled for a few minutes by the absence
of gravity, soon learn their new job and do it as well as they did the
old one. Clothes and hair are inconveniences, though. Practically every
garment of civilization except riding breeches and bathing costumes
depends to some extent on gravity to hold it in place. Whenever I moved,
my jacket began to ride up about me like water wings, and my trousers
gradually worked themselves in untidy folds up my legs, showing the
imprex tape underneath.
I found Mars through the tungsten glass ports and began to check on the
old space navigators' Irishism -- whether it would be where we were when
we got there. But I wasn't allowed much grace. Sammy Hoggan came in,
his face grim.
"Mary Stowe's dead," he said briefly.
I couldn't understand that at first. Somebody dead -- already? It interfered
with my long-term calculation that we were all going to die. It jammed the
works for a moment, this curious, irrelevant intimation that someone hadn't
waited for the execution that appeared to be planned for us all.
"Acceleration?" I asked.
"That and her couch collapsing. It couldn't take the strain.
Bill -- didn't you accelerate more than you were supposed to?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then that killed her," he said bluntly. "The extra weight came on --
and the couch broke. That was -- "
I had heard enough about Mary, and it was too late to do anything about
her. "Go away," I said.
Sammy swore. "Dammit, Bill," he said hotly, "you're responsible for all
of us. You're the man in charge. Is that all you have to say? If you had
to do it -- "
I turned and looked coldly at him. "I'm responsible for getting this
ship to Mars," I said curtly. "I'm not leaving here until I'm satisfied
about that -- not if the whole lot of
be worse than 6G found his mistake as the acceleration went up and up.
The ship was designed for four minutes' blasting, but if I were to save
fuel there was only one way to do it. That was to get off more quickly,
reach escape velocity, and stop blasting sooner, saving the fuel which
would have been needed to hold the ship up during the extra time.
I refused to think about the jet linings. They were designed for four
minutes' blast, presumably, and now they were being asked to take the
same thrust in less time.
I nearly blacked out. I screamed and hardly heard myself. You won't
understand how I felt physically unless the same kind of thing has
happened to you -- when you must and do remain conscious but you're so
near unconsciousness that perceptions sent along the nerve channels to
your brain simply don't leave any record there. You have to notice them
as they happen or you've lost them forever.
I strained my eyes at the dials in front of me, trying to make them
mean that I could cut the drive. They persisted in telling the truth,
which was no good to me. I saw why people sometimes strain to believe
something they know is false. There are times when hopeful fantasy is
much more attractive than hopeless fact.
At last I was able to cut the drive. It had been on for hours.
The chronometer said it was only three minutes or so, but I knew better.
It didn't stop cleanly, as it should, it eased off gently. The couch
gradually rose, and I floated off, weightless.
You never quite get used to free fall, no matter how often you experience
it. It's a surprise every time when up and down disappear from the
environment and the normal way of getting about ceases to be beetlelike
and becomes birdlike. It's amusing or frustrating, depending on how
you're feeling at the time, when you want to go one way and find yourself
going the other, impelled by some tiny movement of air you can't see
and normally wouldn't notice at all.
The body adjusts to the new conditions more quickly than the mind.
The lungs and heart and stomach, puzzled for a few minutes by the absence
of gravity, soon learn their new job and do it as well as they did the
old one. Clothes and hair are inconveniences, though. Practically every
garment of civilization except riding breeches and bathing costumes
depends to some extent on gravity to hold it in place. Whenever I moved,
my jacket began to ride up about me like water wings, and my trousers
gradually worked themselves in untidy folds up my legs, showing the
imprex tape underneath.
I found Mars through the tungsten glass ports and began to check on the
old space navigators' Irishism -- whether it would be where we were when
we got there. But I wasn't allowed much grace. Sammy Hoggan came in,
his face grim.
"Mary Stowe's dead," he said briefly.
I couldn't understand that at first. Somebody dead -- already? It interfered
with my long-term calculation that we were all going to die. It jammed the
works for a moment, this curious, irrelevant intimation that someone hadn't
waited for the execution that appeared to be planned for us all.
"Acceleration?" I asked.
"That and her couch collapsing. It couldn't take the strain.
Bill -- didn't you accelerate more than you were supposed to?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then that killed her," he said bluntly. "The extra weight came on --
and the couch broke. That was -- "
I had heard enough about Mary, and it was too late to do anything about
her. "Go away," I said.
Sammy swore. "Dammit, Bill," he said hotly, "you're responsible for all
of us. You're the man in charge. Is that all you have to say? If you had
to do it -- "
I turned and looked coldly at him. "I'm responsible for getting this
ship to Mars," I said curtly. "I'm not leaving here until I'm satisfied
about that -- not if the whole lot of
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