Weakly he stirred and sat upright, his eyes automatically studying the panel. The fuel pressure was all right, atmospheric pressure was holding, speed was satisfactory. He leaned back in the chair and waited, resting, storing his strength. Automatically his hand reached up and wiped the blood from his lips and chin. II He was in space. Headed for the Moon and from there for Mars. But even the realization of this failed to rouse him from the lethargy of battered body and tortured brain. Taking off in a rocket was punishment. Severe, terrible punishment. Only men who were perfect physical specimens could attempt it. An imperfect heart would simply stop under the jarring impact of the blast-off. Some day rockets would be perfected. Some day rockets would rise gently from the Earth, shaking off Earth's gravity by gradual application of power rather than by tremendous thrusts that kicked steel and glass and men out into space. But not yet, not for many years. Perhaps not for many generations. For many years men would risk their lives in blasting projectiles that ripped loose from the Earth by the sheer savagery of exploding oxygen and gasoline. A moan came from the rear of the ship, a stifled pitiful moan that brought Scott upright in the chair, tearing with nervous hands at the buckles of his belt. With belt loosened, body tensed, he waited for a second, hardly believing he had heard the sound. It came again, a piteous human cry. Scott leaped to his feet, staggered under the lack of gravitation. The rocket was coasting on momentum now and, while its forward motion gave it a simulation of gravity, enough so a man could orient himself, there was in actuality no positive gravity center in the shell. A bundle of heavy blankets lay in a corner formed by a lashed down pile of boxes ... and the bundle was moving feebly. With a cry in his throat, Scott leaped forward and tore the blankets aside. Under them lay a battered man, crumpled, with a pool of blood soaking into a blanket that lay beneath him. Scott lifted the body. The head flopped over and he stared down into the vacant, blood-streaked face of Jimmy Baldwin. Jimmy's eyes fluttered open, then closed again. Scott squatted on his heels, wild thoughts hammering in his head. Jimmy's eyes opened again and regarded the pilot. He raised a feeble hand in greeting. The lips moved, but Jimmy's voice was faint. "Hello, Scott." "What are you doing here?" Scott demanded fiercely. "I don't know," said Jimmy weakly. "I don't know. I meant to do something, but I forgot." Scott rose and took a bottle of water from a case. Wetting his handkerchief, he bathed the bloodied face. His hands ran over Jimmy's body but found no broken bones. It was a wonder the man hadn't been killed outright. Some more Baldwin luck! "Where are we, Scott?" Jimmy asked. "We're in space," said Scott. "We're going out to Mars." No use of telling him anything but the truth.