His deep eyes flicked almost casually over the complex instruments before him on the panel, and his mind instantly figured his position. His hands moved deftly over the studs, adjusting a few errors made by Colonel Barber in his haste; then he set the robot control and swung his pilot seat around to face the rear wall of the cabin.
He slid open a cabinet door, loosened his chest strap so that he might bend forward. He worked a cream into his stubbled face, used a paper towel to wipe away his beard. Then as best he could, using water sparingly, he gave himself a quick bath. Refreshed, he closed the cabinet, opened another at the first one's side. He ate ravenously of the condensed food, finally leaning back with a sigh of repletion. He felt better now, felt better than he had in months. He had the pounding hull of a Patrol Cruiser beneath his feet, and he had a definite mission to complete—and it was only now that he realized how much he had missed both.
He refused to think upon the fact that he was a patrolman again only by virtue of his imagination, instead, preferring to forget the years that had passed so horribly since he had had any command.
He reached out, gave a half turn to the inner pane of the polaroid, quartzite port, felt contentment filling his mind when he gazed into the nothingness of space. He saw the swinging of the stars, caught sight of the blue Earth far behind. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, and he smoked it slowly, relishing the moment, feeling a presentiment that its equal might never come again.
He checked the automatic pilot again, then stretched back in his padded seat. His fingers fumbled at the switch that would flick on the "sleep" rays. For an interminable moment, he thought regretfully of the chaos he had made of his life. Then his finger tightened on the switch, and, as the nimbus of light swelled and pulsated from the protected globe above his head, drifted into a dreamless slumber that would end only when the cruiser was within the gravity field of Venus.
Venus was no longer a green point of light; it loomed ahead like some cottony ball whirling in space. The Patrol Cruiser circled it warily, Val Kenton's fingers resting lightly on the control studs of the instrument panel. He whistled tunelessly, as he brought the ship in closer and closer.
He pressed a firing stud, and the rocket ship nosed down toward the clouds below. For the first time in hours, there was a sense of movement as the batts of clouds rushed up to meet the ship. Now there was something breath-taking in the way that the cruiser seemed to be dropping.
The first tendrils of hazy clouds whipped about the ship. The thrumming of the rockets rose to a higher crescendo, and the force-screen's voltmeter leaped higher as the friction of the clouds tried to cremate the flashing ship.
And then there was only a gray darkness, all of the light of space nullified by the thicknesses of clouds.