A Gift for Terra HIS HEAD hurt like blazes, but he was alive, and to be alive meant fighting like hell to stay that way.
That was the first thing returning consciousness told him. The next was that his helmet should have been cracked wide open when the bum landing had wrenched the acceleration hammocks out of their suspension sockets and heaved his suited body across the buckled conning deck. It should’ve been, but it wasn’t.
The third thing he knew was that Ferris’ helmet had been smashed into a million pieces, and that Ferris was dead.
Sand sifted in a cold, red river through the gaping rent in the side of the ship, trying to bury him before he could stand up and get his balance on the crazily tilted deck. He shook loose with more strength than he needed, gave the rest of the muscles in his blocky body a try, and there wasn’t any hurt worse than a bruise. Funny. Ferris was dead.
. . .
