Well it was that that heap of masonry had not yet had time to settle into form, for in some slight measure it acted as a cushion to break the Lensman's fall. But an inert fall of forty feet, even cushioned by sliding rocks, is in no sense a light one. Kinnison crashed. It seemed as though a thousand pile– drivers struck him at once. Surges of almost unbearable agony swept over him as bones snapped and bruised flesh gave way, and he knew dimly that a merciful tide of oblivion was reaching up to engulf his shrieking, suffering mind.
But, foggily at first in the stunned confusion of his entire being, something stirred, that unknown and unknowable something, that indefinable ultimate quality that had made him what he was. He lived, and while a Lensman lived he did not quit. To quit was to die then and there, since he was losing sir fast. He had plastic in his kit, of course, and the holes were small. He must plug those leaks, and plug them quick. His left arm, he found, he could not move at all. It must be smashed pretty badly. Every shallow breath was a searing pain—that meant a rib or two gone out. Luckily, however, he was not breathing blood, therefore his lungs must still be intact. He could move his right arm, although it seemed like a lump of clay or a limb belonging to someone else. But, mustering all his power of will, he made it move. He dragged it out of the armor's clamped sleeve, and forced the leaden hand to slide through the welter of blood that seemed almost to fill the bulge of his armor. He found his kit– box, and, after an eternity of pain–wracked time, he compelled his sluggish hand to open it and to take out the plastic.
Then, in a continuously crescendo throbbing of agony, he forced his maimed, crushed, and broken body to writhe and to wriggle about, so that his one sound hand could find and stop the holes through which his precious air was whistling out and away. Find them he did, and quickly, and seal them tight, but when he had plugged the last one he slumped down, spent and exhausted. He did not hurt so much, now, his suffering had mounted to such terrific heights of intolerable keenness that the nerves themselves, in outraged protest at carrying such a load, had blocked it off.
There was much more to do, but he simply could not do it without a rest. Even his iron will could not drive his tortured muscles to any further effort until they had been allowed to recuperate a little from what they had gone through.
How much air did he have left, if any, he wondered, foggily and with an entirely detached. and disinterested impersonality. Maybe his tanks were empty. Of course it couldn't have taken him so long to plug those leaks as it had seemed to, or he wouldn't have had any air left at all, in tanks or suit. He couldn't, however, have much left. He would look at his gauges and see.
But now he found that he could not move even his eyeballs, so deep was the coma that was enveloping him. Away off somewhere there was a billowy expanse of blackness, utterly heavenly in its deep, softly–cushioned comfort, and from that sea of peace and surcease there came reaching to embrace him huge, soft, tender arms. Why suffer, something crooned at him. It was so much easier to let go!
17: Nothing Serious at All
Kinnison did not lose consciousness—quite. There was too much to do, too much that had to be done. He had to get out of here. He had to get back to his speedster. He had, by hook or by crook, to get back to Prime Basel Therefore, grimly, doggedly, teeth tightlocked in the enhancing agony of every movement, he drew again upon those hidden, those deeply buried resources which even he had no idea he possessed. His code was simple, the code of the Lens. While a Lensman lived he did not quit. Kinnison was a Lensman. Kinnison lived. Kinnison did not quit.
He fought back that engulfing tide of blackness, wave by wave as it came. He beat down by sheer force of will those tenderly beckoning, those sweetly seducing arms of oblivion. He forced the mass of protesting putty that was his body to do what had to be done. He thrust styptic gauze into the most copiously bleeding of his wounds. He was burned, too, he discovered then—they must have had a high–powered needle–beam on that truck, as well as the rifle—but he could do nothing about burns. There simply wasn't time.
He found the power lead that had been severed by a bullet. Stripping the insulation was an almost impossible job, but it was finally accomplished, after a fashion. Bridging the gap proved to be even a worse one. Since there was no slack, the ends could not be twisted together, but had to be joined by a short piece of spare wire, which in turn had to be stripped and then twisted with each end of the severed lead. That task, too, he finally finished, working purely by feel although he was, and halfconscious withal in a wracking haze of pain.
Soldering those joints was of course out of the question. He was afraid even to try to insulate them with tape, lest the loosely–twined strands should fall apart in the attempt. He did have some dry handkerchiefs, however, if he could reach them. He could, and did, and wrapped one carefully about the wires' bare joints. Then, apprehensively, he tried his neutralizer. Wonder of wonder, it worked! So did his driver!
In moments then he was rocketing up the shaft, and as he passed the opening out of which he had been blown he realized with amazement that what had seemed to him like hours must have been minutes only, and few even of them. For the frantic Wheelmen were just then lifting into place the temporary shield which was to stem the mighty outrush of their atmosphere. Wonderingly, Kinnison looked at his air–gauges. He had enough—if he hurried.
And hurry he did. He could hurry, since there was practically no atmosphere to impede his flight. Up the five–miles–deep shaft he shot and out into space. His chronometer, built to withstand even severer shocks than that of his fall, told him where his speedster was to be found, and in a matter of minutes he found her. He forced his rebellious right arm into the sleeve of his armor and fumbled at the lock. It yielded. The port swung open. He was inside his own ship again.
Again the encroaching universe of blackness threatened, but again he fought it off. He could not pass out—yet! Dragging himself to the board, he laid his course upon Sol., too distant by far to permit of the selection of such a tiny objective as its planet Earth. He connected the automatic controls.
He was weakening fast, and he knew it. But from somewhere and in some fashion he must get strength to do what trust be done—and somehow he did it. He cut in the Berg, cut in maximum blast. Hang on, Kim! Hang on for just a second more! He disconnected the spacer. He killed the detector nullifiers. Then, with the utterly last remnant of his strength he thought into his Lens.
"Haynes." The thought went out blurred, distorted, weak. "Kinniston. I'm coming…. com…"
He was done. Out, cold. Utterly spent. He had already done too much—far, far too much. He had driven that pitifully mangled body of his to its ultimately last possible movement, his wracked and tortured mind to its ultimately last possible thought. The last iota of even his tremendous reserve of vitality was consumed and he plunged, parsecs deep, into the black depths of oblivion which bad so long and so unsuccessfully been trying to engulf him. And on and on the speedster flashed 'at the very peak of her unimaginably high speed, carrying the insensible, the utterly spent, the sorely wounded, the abysmally unconscious Lensman toward his native Earth.