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?"

Rough? Like birth and death and all of life, rolled into minutes.

"No more so than I expected, Captain. Pretty much routine. Routine for a Hornetman."

 Prev. P 11/11