The force of the hand jet pushed in at his midriff, made his legs and head swing forward. Well, that was okay as long as they didn't get into the exhaust. He stopped blasting a moment to get a better grip on the reaction motor, then fired continuously. Occasionally he would find he'd started himself spinning; then he'd shift the motor just a trifle to keep himself facing the planet. He kept the button firmly pressed down, and the cylinder in his hands sent a continuous jet of intense blue toward Earth. When the first fuel cartridge was exhausted, he put in the second and kept it up.
Twice he stopped for a food pellet and a little water. The rests were welcome: his arms and chest were stiff and aching. But he didn't rest long, because he was getting really scared now. He was sure he was dangerously close to his destination, and his speed hadn't been cut enough. The continents and oceans of Earth's day side were clearly visible, and grew noticeably larger as he looked at them.
He now thought of the direction he was going as down; he thought of himself as falling.
Something bothered him: America had not been in sight a while ago, but now he could see a corner of Brazil appearing at the edge of the disk of Earth. Did that mean he was passing by Earth instead of falling straight at it? No, he realized in a moment, it just meant Earth was rotating; for he could see that the sunset line, the line between night side and day side, had not changed its apparent position on the disk.
No, he was still falling. And he was falling too fast.
A suspicion began to form that Birkerod and Garcia had anticipated this. And suddenly, terrifyingly, he thought of what Garcia's last remark might have meant!
Still, they'd said there was a way he could save himself. And the only way he could think of was to break his fall. He had a certain quantity of fuel to do it with, and he was using it. He was using it for all it was worth, no matter how much his body ached with fatigue. If those two on the Tang had figured this all out ahead of time, then they must have left him enough fuel to avoid being killed. Otherwise they might as well have shot him on the Tang. Okay, if he had enough fuel he'd use it all.
One after another the fuel cartridges burned out. Pappas longed for another rest, but he didn't dare take one now. He kept firing, and still the Earth kept growing larger and brighter below him. Finally, there was no more fuel.
After a short breather, Pappas took the reaction motor, detached it from the cord which bound it to his spacesuit, and flung it downward with all his strength. Then he did the same with the mirror, the searchlight, and the reel of cable. It was all he could do.