Peter Duncan lay strapped, drugged and supine on one of the eighty narrow bucket-couches on the passenger deck and was miserably, continuously sick. It was not a nice steady nausea that a man could adjust to. Nor even a rhythmic vertigo like one suffered from an ocean liner wallowing in ground swells. It was a shifting, sliding instability in three dimensions, as the Mars-bound vessel responded to automatic radar controls. The concept of interplanetary space being empty was long since an exploded myth Duncan was reminded as the space ship veered, accelerated, decelerated and corrected course to avoid collision with meteorites approaching from thousands of miles away.…
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