Hal was out on the wing tip. He made a movement towards space, froze back into a crouch and felt frenziedly back at his parachute. Suppose it were not there! Suppose he had never put it on! His fingers touched the compact bulk of the ’chute that dangled gawkily from shoulder straps and belt straps. Hal braced himself, shamed at his childishness. No more fooling. He must go this time.
Steady, go!
Hal Dane stepped off the wing edge and dropped into space.
The pull-off swung him like a toy. Everything went black. He shut his eyes, opened them again. The earth seemed to gyrate below him. Above him, the zoom of the ship.
He must pull the rip cord of the ’chute. No, no—not yet! Must wait, must be no danger of tearing silken fabric against a whirl of the plane.
Down, down. Top speed. Heart in throat. Ghastly shriek of air in his face. His head was going down. He must kick, keep the slant. Maben had said, “Keep your head up—head down gives you one bustin’ yank in the middle when she opens up!”
One, two, four, six,—twenty—no use to count heartbeats—heart must have thumped a thousand times by now. No time to waste. Earth looked like it was coming up. Now! Now! He must pull the rip cord!
Down, down. The thing hadn’t opened! Suppose—
The great silk lobe opened out with a “pow-a” like a cannon shot.
The lightning speed drop was checked suddenly, and the parachute harness tightened about him at the pull. He seemed to drop no more. He felt that he was only floating, a mere dot against the immensity of the skies. He seemed an unreality, a swaying atom drifting in the gulfs of space. The earth that a moment ago had seemed coming up to meet him now seemed a thousand miles away. Would he ever come down, touch foot on that earth again?