 Why couldn’t David move after he first opened his eyes?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. The muscles in my throat tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. The mesh-covered hole and the two lights looked like a caricature of a face, set in a panel of dials. I reached down to the tightness that held my body, found the wide strap that held me and fumbled with the buckle. There was no sensation of place, no feeling of up or down, no direction. I rubbed them across my face, feeling the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself. The name meant nothing to me, but I thought about it, watching the relentless lights that shone below the dials. After the first shock of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand the function or design of the compact machinery. Now it must tell me why I didn't. It was the only thing I saw that could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of the clear portholes. "Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension." He was as still as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him.
 He had a wide seatbelt on.
 He was in suspension.  He was in a tight space.  He had a wide seatbelt on.  He was weightless.