Chapter 32

The rocket's launch sent powerful vibrations shuddering through Biggles and the cabin he was in. Work had already begun on severing his right wrist binding but the shaking postponed it.

Stalhein had sneakily tucked Tom's tool into Biggles' sleeve before leaving the rocket. Why did he do it? Perhaps respect for a long time antagonist; gratitude for sparing his life during the parachute drop; or maybe he did not like what Totenkopf was doing. Either way Biggles had a thin hope of survival. The tool was a both a flat screw driver and a blade, probably another of the young inventor's creations.

When the fast ascension happened the pilot felt queasy. Biggles had flown many times but never so directly up or so fast. Only the severing of the first wrist binding kept his mind on the task at hand. He commenced applying his newly freed hand to cutting the other wrist binding despite escalating nausea.

A look out the porthole showed that the rocket had cleared the volcano and was shooting through the clouds into the blue yonder above.

His cheeks began to reach for his chin. The same was happening to his skin everywhere, it was being pushed downward by the G-force. Biggles flesh was being drawn to the floor; he figured if a split was made on his scalp, the entire skin would peel of him on both sides and be pressed to the deck.

After the last wrist binding was cut through; Biggles then untied his ankle restraints before getting of the seat. Standing was impossible: not only was the G-force pushing him down but his legs were weakened by the extreme lifting sensation.

The flat screwdriver was ideal for prying open the wing panel; this was achieved when a familiar sound emanated from a glass screen on the wall. Totenkopf's image appeared on the square glass surface.

"Congratulations young sky pioneer." Said the image that was clearly one of Totenkopf's recordings being played back. "You have the honour of being a martyr for a new age of interplanetary travel. Your discomfort and sacrifice is regrettable, but how appropriate is it that you are being propelled into the heavens? For that is where you truly belong. May your discomfort be short and your honoured memory eternal."

Totenkopf's image gave a salute then fizzled out to a blank screen. Biggles returned a series of expletives to the glass square while groping in the darkness beyond the panel. His fingers soon felt a handle then gripped it; a forced turn clockwise had the rocket slightly veer away from its perfectly vertical course. Biggles realised he had just altered the wing position. Realising now what he had to do, Biggles turned to the other wing panel. He had to drag himself across the cabin floor which was blessedly narrow.

The flat screw driver opened up the other panel and Biggles groped for the magnetic handle. This was more difficult as his vision was blurring and his head began to ache. The pilot realised that the G-force was pushing the blood down from his head towards the lower parts of his body. He had to work fast.

When the magnetic handle was located and gripped, Biggles reached out his other hand for the first one; it was found and seized despite blurred vision. He turned each magnet a particular way in accordance with his pilot's knowledge of aerodynamics and felt the rocket's course become diagonal rather than vertical.

Blood dripped from his nostrils, forced down by the G-force. Biggles wanted to tend to it but his hands were needed where they were. An extra turn was exacted on the magnetic handles so the wings adjusted and a horizontal trajectory was achieved. The G-force had turned into a fierce inertia that he, a pilot, was half used to but it had already taken its toll on him. There was no mirror, but he knew his eyes were bloodshot with red drops forced out of his tear ducts and a continual thumping in his ears. Pressure within him felt strong, with the feeling that his insides were being stretched to breaking point.

Biggles wanted to get back to Earth. Without a thought he turned the magnets again and affected a downward diagonal course. He was going home. That sounded good until he realised the rocket's impact will most certainly kill him. The magnets were turned again; the giant metal dart was going straight down. Biggles wondered if he knew what he was doing, this course would definitely be the end of him.

There was a faint hope that the ill effects of the G-force on the way up would be reversed on the way down. What he felt was a new debilitating sense of weightlessness and fresh nausea. Biggles gave a panicked turn of the two magnets then let one go, so he could observe his results through the porthole. He had clearly turned the wings to much; this was forty-five degrees short of being horizontal; the rocket was approaching the sea.

Bottom of the ocean was not the place he wanted to end up; Biggles reached out for the far magnet but found he was too debilitated for such action. The fast travel had taken its toll on him. Biggles gave a slight turn to the one magnet he could reach. The one wing turn brought a swifter descent. Biggles vision was narrowed like looking through a murky spyglass he could no longer see the results of his manipulations. He turned the magnet back without being able to judge the angle. Tunnel visioned and disorientated all he could make out through the porthole was that the sea looked very close.

All he could do now was brace for impact; he gripped a seat leg and lied down flat on the floor. A thunderous jolt roared through the cabin, followed by another. Biggles realised that the rocket was skipping along the ocean surface like a horizontally hurled flat shell. The thruster tubes had shut down with the first impact, this vessel was traveling on momentum alone.

Two more thunderous skips occurred, each giving the pilot a new bruise, then the the rocket hit something harder. Biggles was thrown against the wall underneath the glass screen which shattered into hundreds of tiny shards raining down on him. The rocket screeched to a halt as it dug into hard ground.

Biggles could not move; control of his faculties had been brought to virtually nil. He could see through the cracked porthole that the rocket had hit a rock formation and had come to rest on a beach. The fuselage had been torn by the impact and water was seeping in, it would soon enter the cabin and drown him. He could not move or yell for help, his consciousness faded quickly.