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. * * * * * "Cressey, can you hear me?" "Yes, I can hear you. Who is it?" "It's Captain Mackley. I've come to see you." "Well--thanks, Captain." "You got the Outspacer, Cressey. I thought you'd like to know." "Frankly, Captain, I couldn't care less. But thanks for telling me, anyway." "It means a lot, Cressey. There were a lot of people's lives riding with you." _Yeah, I'm a hero. I'm a Hornetman._ "Thanks, Captain." "Was it pretty rough?"