The secondary engines kicked in, pushing X back with acceleration, his suit creaked with pressure changes. In a few moments he was out of the atmosphere. Not the first, not the last time. He’d trained for years, made sacrifices (personal, familial), shunning laziness like a sickness. Quite probably long term professional suicide. Ex-astronauts, after their very brief very dangerous career either became fixtures of retirement homes, retelling the same stories, or adjunct professors somewhere out of mercy, gray hair slicked back, natty suit, camouflaged decay. And yet. And yet he could not imagine it any other way, for this moment.