VAL KENTON GROANED feebly, opened his eyes to stare uncomprehendingly about the cabin of the rocket ship. He lay for seconds against the curved wall, utterly unnerved by the horror of that last flashing moment. He was afraid to move, certain that his injuries would be such that he would have been better off had he died in the crash.
At last, he moved his arms and legs tentatively, swearing amazedly when he found that, other than terrible aching bruises, he was unhurt. He came to his feet, examined the instrument panel, marvelling that his last conscious act had been the closing of switches on the panel.
He moved slowly, unscrewed the back panel, wriggled into the confines of the rocket chambers in the tail of the ship. He shook his head dully, when he discovered the fused catalyst feed.
