How, asked Peter of his mind, can they expect anything to happen now? Every man is psychologically unable to move forward.
There came a stabbing pain, and Peter whirled with a wordless scream. The shock was searing. Instantaneously, he whirled, hitting his upflinging elbow against the wall. The obstruction in motion set him off balance, and he automatically moved a foot to regain it. His foot hit the foot of Ben, who was standing solidly, partly turned, his face just changing from solid-set to one of surprise.
The solid foot tripped Peter, and he fell forward. He flung the still-burning match from his fingers as he put both hands forward to break his fall. The loading deck came up to meet him, and his forward-flung hands went down toward—
The red line!
There was a coruscating flare of stars, bars, and screaming color in his mind, that contracted to a pinpoint and then expanded to infinity, leaving only peaceful blackness.
He returned to consciousness in the ambulance, but his return was brief. He was conscious only long enough to hear:
"Some day we'll lick it," said Ben.