Journey Into Space by Charles Chilton

on the chest came quicker than before. I felt as though I were being pushed through the couch. The muscles of my thighs seemed to flatten outwards. The loose flesh on my face pressed down on to my cheek bones. It was as though a pair of powerful hands had been placed on each cheek and were trying to pull the flesh from my face towards my ears. My mouth stretched until it hurt. My tongue was too heavy to lift and saliva gathered in the back of my throat. Breathing was well nigh impossible. I began to yell, to moan and scream. It was the only way I could force the breath out of my lungs. They seemed to fill of their own accord, causing me to sing out in deep, sucking, involuntary sobs. Had I been able to do so, I would have kicked my legs, waved my arms in the struggle to breathe. I expected my lungs to collapse.
    The agony lasted for a full two minutes. Then it ceased. The suddenness with which the motor cut out and the deep silence that followed set bells ringing in my ears. Mitch passed the back of his hand across his forehead. His face was ash coloured.
    Gradually the ringing faded away and my hearing returned. I heard Lemmy speak--as from a distance.
    “Is it over?”
    “Yes, Lemmy. Feel OK?”
    “Like I’ve been through a mangle.”
    “Doc?”
    “OK, I think.”
    “Mitch?”
    Mitch didn’t answer--not at first. He attempted to say something but was unable to speak. He was trying hard not to vomit. So was I.
    “What’s up, Mitch?”
    “I--feel--like--death.” He got the words out only with great effort.
    “Lie still. Don’t move. We’ll all lie still for a few minutes.”
    Presently I began to feel better. So did Lemmy. In fact he was almost objectionably cheerful. “Lemmy, if you feel fit enough, get up and get to work on that radio. We must re-establish contact with base as soon as possible.”
    “Oh sure, Jet. Leave it to me.” He undid his safety straps, sat up in his bunk, took off and went drifting up to the ceiling. I’ve never seen such a look of horror and surprise on a man’s face as I did at that moment. Lemmy lay against the cabin roof, face down, his arms and legs spread out awkwardly.
    “Jet--get me down. Help!”
    “Serves you right for getting off your bed without your boots on. You should know better than that.”
    “All I did was reach out for them and I shot straight up here.”
    “You should have held on to your couch. The slightest movement is likely to send you drifting. It’s been drummed into you often enough.”
    “Pull yourself down by the rail, Lemmy,” I called.
    He did as I suggested. “Oh,” he said, “I feel just like a feather.”
    None of us weighed as much. We were all weightless, as was everything in the ship, and would remain so until we landed.
    “Is it going to be like this all the way to the Moon, Doc?”
    “I’m afraid so, Lemmy. But you’ll get used to it. Now, gently--not too hard--you’ll hit the floor.”
    He reached his bunk without incident and, hanging on to the side with one hand, pulled his boots from their stowage locker with the other. He secured himself with his safety strap and put on his metal-soled, magnetic boots. He was then ready to descend to the floor, which he did, negotiating the rungs of the ladder rather drunkenly. But once he touched the floor he was able to stand up and, with the clumsy steps of a robot, stagger across the cabin.
    “What’s it like to walk, Lemmy?” I asked. I was feeling much better now and was putting on my own boots as I spoke.
    “Like your feet are anchored but your head’s adrift.”
    I stepped out of my bunk and stumbled across to Lemmy. It was a weird sensation, but after a few practice trips round the cabin Lemmy and I were walking almost normally. But there were a few things that took some getting used to. For example, if you held up your arm it had a tendency to stay up. It needed as much muscular power to get it down again as it needed to raise it. It would not drop back to a hanging position