He fought his way to his hands and knees, but his body rebelled at the task of rising to his feet.
This is getting to where it ain't funny, he thought, and scrambled with great effort to the control board.
He had a look at the G-gauge and whistled softly. 3.4! Leaping Luna, no wonder! He forced his hand to the knurled knob of the control lever and clicked it down four notches. He held it there a moment, then eased it back a fraction by twisting the knob. The dynamics' hum rose a note and the weight began to fall from him.
He stepped swiftly to the other shock-chair and released the restrainers with one impatient stabbing finger. Doc had a bluish tinge about his mouth and his breathing was a bit ragged.
"Doc," said Jon sharply. He thumbed one of Doc's eyes open and studied the pupil. "Too much deceleration," he muttered, and wheeled to the black kit on the wall.
His eye caught the visi-plate over the control panel in passing, and he gave the bleak plain it showed a casual glance. Something round and black traveled across the field of vision, but was gone almost as soon as it caught his attention. He flicked a quick look to see that the automatic cameras were recording, and returned to Doc.
Doc made no response to the jab of the needle, but within ten seconds the color flooded to his face and he snapped his head up with alert attention.
"We made it," said Doc with instant comprehension. Doc was bald as an egg, though he was not yet thirty-five, and his lips were red and full and smiled easily. Behind those twinkling blue eyes—as Jon knew full well—was a brain that operated at its peak during stress, a mind that knew neither dismay nor panic.
His eyes twinkled now with sharp inquiry. "How does it look, Jon?"