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And still..... MORE Rick Connors:

He knew he was going to die. He had accepted it. There was nothing to do but face the consequences of his life.

Rick addressed the Inquisitor, "I have awakened, this day, in someone else's world. I choose these words of introduction because the alternative would be to ask the clichéd 'Where am I?' to which any answer would be one of conjecture. For I perceive that you have no more idea of my situation than I have of yours."

"Words well chosen, indeed, for a defense based upon a plea of disorientation, Citizen. But, despite your unusual robes, we have arrived at a determination of your origin and it is not so exotic as you would have us think you believe", the Inquisitor replied, looking at the report before him. "We have prepared comfortable accommodations where you may consider any amendments you might like to make to your initial declaration."

He then motioned to the bailiff, "Centurion, escort our distinguished guest to the Chamber of Solitude. There he may confer with his innermost convictions and, we trust, arrive at a more rational statement of record."

"On your feet, dog! I have less love for your kind than does our benevolent council." The guard secured Rick's restraining harness.

They moved out of the soft light of the council chambers through a darkened room illuminated only by marker strips along the walkway. Upon arrival at the designated area, Rick was ushered into a cylinder five millimeters taller than himself and a diameter slightly larger than the width of his shoulders.

"Do not be concerned, Guest. The chamber will adjust to your comfort." The guard brought the sleeve down around Rick's cylinder and rotated the latch. It began to pressurize and the drop in temperature seemed to freeze his lungs as paralysis and unconsciousness swept over him.

A tremendous jolt spun Rick violently to the left and then to the right, and his eyes opened abruptly to a stinging rush of cold air. He was floating through the sky under a great white cloud, drifting in a wide circle. Which of the visions was real? Or was it all illusion?

Then it came to him. The 'chute had opened!

He had lost consciousness when the world had fallen from beneath him. The static line had dragged the canopy from its pack, and the shock of its opening had shaken him awake. His disorientation was beginning to fade as reality seeped in.

Welcome home, Rick!

It was coming back to him. His heart had been racing and was pounding painfully in his ears as he moved toward the open doorway, wind rushing by at ninety miles per hour. He sat with his legs dangling in the opening, judging the prop wash and looking down at the colorful patchwork drifting by lazily in the dreamy distance. It was somehow surreal. Not actually there at all.

He reached his left hand toward the wing strut to get a firm hold, fighting the force of the wind. Then he dropped his left foot onto the platform welded to the landing gear. His breathing was becoming labored and his heart was running away. He momentarily had the urge to clutch his chest as he felt it tightening, but he needed both hands to hang on to the strut. Upon the jumpmaster's command, he swung himself out of the cabin and grasped firmly with his right hand, and then brought his right foot out to rest next to his left. He took a moment to stabilize his position, looked at the jumpmaster, and managed a strained smile.

Assuming Rick was ready, and judging the position over the drop zone was satisfactory, the jumpmaster turned his right thumb up and shouted, "Boogie! Boogie!"

Rick gave a forceful push to the wing strut and simultaneously stepped off the platform just before thinking for a split-second, "My God! Did he say 'Get back in'?"

But he was committed. There would be no getting back in. He felt the blood leaving his brain. He knew he was going to die. He had accepted it. And he passed out cold!

But he hadn't died. Not yet, anyway. He forced himself to reach up the risers of the shroud lines and seize the control toggles, and began to guide himself toward the drop zone, using the old school bus with the red "X" on its roof as his reference.

He just barely cleared the hangar next to the parking area by lifting his feet until he had passed its roof. Several panicked spectators rapidly pulled their legs inside their vehicles and slammed the doors shut just before his passing them. His landing was less than dignified, but lacked injury to anything but pride.

But the best part was that no one was aware of what had happened. It was agreed upon by the observers on the ground, and the jumpmaster in the plane, that Rick had just made a sloppy exit, but had stabilized after canopy deployment.

He went back up as soon as his parachute had been repacked, and made one of the most spectacular exits and landings of any novice sport parachutist. His heart almost jumped out ahead of him, but he was able to experience each exquisite moment of terror this time -no ducking out.

The following day found him again at the field. He signed out a chute, strapped it on and waddled to the plane.

The adrenaline flowed madly, but everything went perfectly. Until the end of the approach. It had been discussed that no extreme approach adjustments should be made within one hundred feet of the ground. But Rick couldn't resist the urge to try to force his way into the target circle. He was holding tight on the right toggle, collapsing that side of the chute and forcing a slow spin. Air was dumping from under the canopy, and it began to oscillate, swinging Rick back and forth rapidly.

He had reached the area within the circle, but the oscillations dashed Rick's right foot painfully into the earth. Thinking he had just strained a muscle, Rick gathered up his parachute and returned it to the equipment shed for repacking, limping slightly along the way. Although he had not followed correct procedures for the approach, his jumpmaster entered glowing remarks about his perfect exit and deployment. He elected not to elaborate on the landing.

Later that afternoon, the pain in Rick's foot became more than just annoying. He drove to the emergency room at Saint Joseph's and had it examined. There were six fractured bones, three clean fractures (which the doctors were delighted to report would be fine in six weeks) and three cracked bones (which they said would never completely heal).

So much for the great skydiving hobby. It would be twenty years before anyone could talk him into it again.