The Earth was farther away and moving farther still. They were 100 miles high. They were 200 miles high....
There was no longer any sound at all, except their gaspings for breath. Their muscles had refused to lift their chests at all during the most brutal of the deceleration period.
Presently Joe croaked a question. He looked at the hull-temperature indicators. They were very, very high. He found that he was bruised where he had strapped himself in. The places where each strap had held his heavy body against the ship's vibrations were deeply black-and-blue.
The Chief said thickly: "Joe, somehow I don't think this is going to work. When do we hit again?"
"Three hours plus or minus something," said Joe, dry-throated. "We'll hear from the ground."
Mike said in a cracked voice: "Radar reports we went a little bit too low. They think we weren't tilted up far enough. We didn't bounce as soon as we should."
Joe unstrapped himself.
"How about the other ship?"
"It did better than we did," said Mike. "It's a good 200 miles ahead. Down at the Shed, they're recalculating for us. We'll have to land with six grazes instead of eight. We lost too much speed."
Joe went staggering, again weightless, to look out a port for the other ship. He should have known better. One does not spot an eighty-foot space ship with the naked eye when it is 200 miles away.