"I've heard that'd happen. I wanted to try it," McCauley said amusedly.
A match requires oxygen in which to burn. On the ground, the chemically fostered first flame of the match-head heats the air, which rises and is replaced, whereby fresh oxygen reaches the place of combustion and supports it. But in the X-21, in free fall, hot air was no lighter than cold. It did not rise. The match exhausted the oxygen around it and went out. McCauley turned the air-circulator on again lest he and Furness be similarly surrounded by vitiated air.
"Queer, eh?" said McCauley. Then he looked at Furness. Furness' eyes seemed filled with suffering. His pallor was deathlike.
"What's the matter?" McCauley asked.
Purely by instinct he raced his eyes across the instruments. They said nothing they should not.
"Furness!" snapped McCauley. "What's the matter? What's happened to you?"
With an air of terrible effort—though nothing weighed as much as a hair—Furness moved his left hand away from his side. It came away filled with blood. There was an ominous dark-red patch on the flight suit, and something seemed to be welling slowly out of a puncture in the cloth. The hole was the size of a bullet hole.
"Just before ... take-off," said Furness thinly, "the rocket fuel that was ... bled through the fuel pipes ... went off when you tested ... the engine. It exploded. It threw pebbles like bullets. One ... ripped the general's hat. One ... hit me."
McCauley swore. He felt a sort of bitter anger. Of all the places where instant medical attention for an injured man was impossible, the worst was the close, air-tight cabin of a ship out of atmosphere, traveling at some thousands of miles per hour and heading into night. Descending was out of the question. It was impossible to turn back.
"Let's look at that," said McCauley harshly. "Maybe we can check the bleeding somehow.—Why didn't you report you were hurt? Didn't you know you were risking your life?"