when cressey regained consciousness, the earth was a great globe, filling his entire field of vision. he could not estimate his distance, though he thought he was within the satellite ring. his speed would plunge him into atmosphere shortly, too shortly.

within seconds he began to feel the warmth as he entered the region where a few air molecules began to brush over the surfaces of his ship. he rotated the delta-wings full, but there was no response. he was not yet deep enough into the sea of air for the control surfaces to react. he watched the tips of the wings, so ridiculously close to him, though he knew he would not be able to see anything. soon he began to feel a gentle bucking motion as the wings met resistance. he flattened them out, horizontal, and began to draw them up again slowly, so they would move the tiny ship upward instead of simply tearing off at the roots.

the heat was already uncomfortable, and he was slowing. now he was pressed forward against the seat belt as deceleration increased. the control surfaces bit into the thin air more solidly now, and cressey thought the nose had come up a bit, but it was so slight he couldn't be sure. the bucking motion was more pronounced, but there was nothing he could do about that.

slowly, slowly. the wings had to tilt so very slowly, or they would be ripped from the pod-like hull, leaving it to plummet into thick air and glow briefly like a cigarette in the dark before it plunged down to earth. his face was wet behind the fish-bowl, but he could not reach it to wipe the sweat away. nor could he have taken his hands away from the controls in any case.

the nose had come up, he was certain of that now. he was definitely rising, but the heat was becoming unbearable. imperceptibly, a thin shrieking had arisen in the cabin, almost out of sonic range, just enough to make a man's nerves feel as if they had been dragged across a rough file. the heat transmitted through the body of the pod and into the bucket was beginning to burn his legs. he was being held out of the seat itself by the force of his deceleration, but the backs of his calves still touched metal. he thought he could smell the fabric of his suit burning, but realized it was probably his overwrought imagination.

his cheeks felt too large, puffed out, as though strong, implacable hands were pulling all his loose flesh forward. his eyes strained forward, threatening to come out of their sockets. the red haze began, and he had a sudden frightening thought that he might lose consciousness before the hornet had well begun its rise out of atmosphere. the red darkened into black.

he regained consciousness. the first skip had been made. the ship began to settle back into atmosphere again, and now its speed was lower. with each pass the heat would become more intense, as the plane would not have a chance to cool completely before it began to heat again. he had to maintain a delicate balance between going deep enough to slow him, but not so deep he couldn't bring the ship up before it burned, cherry-red. his body was drenched as by a shower, and the inner lining of his suit felt soggy from sweat.

the second skip was worse than the first, and he lost consciousness almost too soon. the third was worse than the second. after the fourth, he could not lift high enough to clear atmosphere. he had gone too deep, and was now bound by the great mass of earth below.

he was still at a shallow angle, relative to the ground. he estimated he would make at least one complete orbit, perhaps two, before his spiralling trajectory brought him to the contact point on the surface. if he were still conscious, he would leave the aircraft at 30,000 feet, and hope. he knew his speed was still too high, well over mach 2, higher than it had been on either of his other approaches. the ship was threatening to tear apart under the furious pounding it was taking from air and shock waves.

hobson's choice. bail out high, and suffocate because the automatic chute release would not allow him to make a delayed opening. bail out low, and the thick air would pound his body to a pulp, and below the steel webbed chute would hang nothing but a suit, full of a still, red messiness.

the timing had to be precision itself, but it had to be done by guesswork. there was no training that could prepare a man for this. it was all new. he uncoupled the air hose leading to his suit, and placed his hand on the ejector lever. he knew he was too high, but the wings showed quivering signs of buckling under the strain.

he pulled the lever, releasing the canopy and arming the seat cartridge. the canopy disappeared miraculously from over his head. he was deafened by the thunderous roar of air that entered the cramped cockpit, like an explosion peak that remained constant, not diminishing. instinctively, he ducked his head, recoiling at the sound. he did not remember triggering the seat ejector.

cressey fell. the seat dropped away from him, the incredibly strong parachute opened, all automatically. he fell forty-five thousand feet into the pacific ocean, unconscious. his face was battered by windblast almost beyond recognition, and his body equally so. when the rescue team pulled him from the water, three hours later, they thought he was an old man. his eyes were a mass of red, from dozens of sub-conjunctival hemorrhages. he would see again, but not until after weeks of near blindness.

but he was alive. when he woke up in the california hospital four days later, he considered ruefully that that was about the best one could expect in his business.