So timed was the transcribed music that the rocket-blast effect of the final chorus merged into the real blast of the ship’s tubes; the Glory Road stirred and lifted… then threw herself away into the open sky.
V – Circum Terra
The weight of acceleration was no worse than it had been the day before in the Santa Fe Trail but the drive persisted for more than five minutes, minutes that seemed like an endless hour. After they passed the speed of sound the compartment was relatively quiet. Don made a great effort and managed to turn his head a little. “Sir Isaac Newton’s” great bulk was flattened to the deck, making Don think unpleasantly of a lizard crushed into a road. His eyestalks drooped like limp asparagus. He looked dead.
Don strained for breath and called out, “Are you all right?”
The Venerian did not stir. His voder instrument was covered by the sagging folds of his neck; it seemed unlikely that his tendrils could have managed the delicate touch required for its keys even had it been free. Nor did he reply in his own whistling speech.
Don wanted to go to him, but he was as immobilized by the blast weight as is the bottommost player in a football pile up. He forced his head back where it belonged so that he might breathe less painfully and waited.
When the blast died away his stomach gave one protesting flip-flop, then quieted down; either the anti-nausea shot had worked or he had his space balance again—or both. Without waiting for permission from the control room he quickly unstrapped and hurried to the Venerian. He steadied himself in the air, holding with one hand to the steel bands restraining his companion.
The dragon was no longer crushed to the deck plates; only the steel hoops kept him from floating around the compartment. Behind him his giant tail waved loosely, brushing the ship’s plates and knocking off paint chips.
The eyestalks were still limp and each eye filmed over. The dragon stirred only in the meaningless motion of string in water; there was nothing to show that he was alive. Don clenched a fist and pounded on the creature’s flat skull. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
All he got out of it was a bruised hand; Sir Isaac made no response. Don hung for a moment, wondering what to do. That his acquaintance was in a bad way he felt sure, but his training in first aid did not extend to Venerian pseudosaurians. He dug back into his childhood memories, trying to think of something.
The same ship’s officer who had rearranged the berthing appeared at the forward or “upper” hatch, floating head “down.” “All okay this deck?” he inquired perfunctorily and started to back out.
“No!” Don shouted. “Case of blast shock.”
“Huh?” The officer swam on into the compartment and looked at the other passenger. He swore unimaginatively and looked worried. “This is beyond me; I never carried one before. How the deuce do you give artificial respiration to a thing as big as that?”
“You don’t,” Don told him. “His lungs are completely enclosed in his armor box.”
“He looks dead. I think he’s stopped breathing.”
A memory floated to the top in Don’s mind; he snatched it. “Got a cigarette?”
“Huh? Don’t bother me! Anyhow the smoking lamp is out.”
“You don’t understand,” Don persisted. “If you’ve got one, light it. You can blow smoke at his nostril plate and see whether or not he’s breathing.”
“Oh. Well, maybe it’s a good idea.” The spaceman got out a cigarette and struck it.
“But be careful,” Don went on. “They can’t stand nicotine. One big puff and then put it out.”
“Maybe it’s not such a good idea,” the ship’s officer objected. “Say, you sound like a Venus colonial?”
Don hesitated, then answered, “I’m a Federation citizen.” It seemed like a poor time to discuss politics. He moved over to the dragon’s chin, braced his feet against the deck plates and shoved, thus exposing the Venerian’s nostril plate, which was located under the creature’s head in the folds of his neck. Don could not have managed it, save that they were in free fall, making the bulky mass weightless.