The Feel When you are on a pacific island picnic with the girlfriend and getting a panic attack
"But Venus can't be there," protested Indra. "That's much too far north."
In a single, sickening instant Franklin knew that she was right. If he had any doubt, he could see now that the star he was watching was moving swiftly across the sky, rising out of the west and so defying the laws which controlled all other heavenly bodies.
He was staring at the Space Station, the largest of all the satellites now circling Earth, as it raced along its thousand-mile-high orbit (isn't that in the van Allen Belt?). He tried to turn his eyes away, to break the hypnotic spell of that manmade, unscintillating star. It was as if he was teetering on the edge of an abyss; the terror of those endless, trackless wastes between the worlds began to invade and dominate his mind, to threaten the very foundations of his sanity.
He would have have won the struggle, no more than a little shaken, had it not been for a second accident of fate. With the explosive suddenness with which memory sometimes yields to persistent questioning, he knew what it was that had been worrying him for the last few minutes. It was the smell of the fuel that Indra had siphone from the hydrojet - the unmistakable, slightly aromatic tang of synthene. And crowding hard upon that recognition was the memory of where he had last met that all-too-familiar odor.
Synthene - first developed as a rocket propellant - now obsolete like all other chemical fuels, except for low-powered applications like the propulsion of space suits.
It was too much; the double assault defeated him. Both sight and smell had turned traitor in the same instant. Within seconds, the patiently built dikes which now protected his mind went down before the rising tide of terror.