The meter touched fifty for an instant and then went on up toward sixty. It did not stop at the green line that indicated two Terran G, but passed it and proceeded on toward seventy feet per. It climbed to eighty, passed, approached ninety, passed, and still climbed with a precise linearity that made the men admire the steady hand on the main power lever in spite of whose hand it was. At one hundred feet per second per second, Hammond said: "When is that dame going to stop?" "Call her down," suggested Larry. "Better wait. No use making her nervous this close to Pluto. Bawl her out and she's likely to make the wrong move--and one move would be too much!" The pressure of 4-G held them to their padded seats, and their heads were fixed immobile in the head braces, all watching the dial climb. It passed one-thirty, went on up the dial to one-forty, and then the voice of Sandra Drake said, weakly: "When are you fools going to stop?" Hammond gaped. "Who? Us?" "Who else?" snapped Drake. The meter touched one-fifty. "We're not doing anything. Level off, Drake, or you'll squash us flat!" "_You_ level off. I haven't had the power lever since I adjusted it before I hit the main switch. I can't even lift my arm now; I didn't expect you to run this heap of junk from up there and so I didn't adjust the arm rest." The dial crept up past one-sixty. "But we're not running it from here," yelled McBride. "We haven't touched a thing since Hammond told you to take it up at twenty feet per." The automatic respirators started to work, pumping their rib-cages in rhythm with their own breathing urges, and they sank into the enveloping folds of the elastomer cushions which supported their bodies. The meter hit one-seventy and passed it. "Then who _is_ running the soup up?" came back the labored voice of Sandra Drake. "If this is just a joke, cut it. I can't take much more." "You--and all of us are doing well to take what we're getting now," stormed McBride. "Who--" "Something's amiss somewhere," said Hammond thoughtfully. "At this point, any gagster would quit. Look at the meter. One hundred and ninety feet per! Almost 7-G! Uh--" * * * * * Black waves and dizziness came, shrouding little dazzles of colored pinpoints that danced before the eyes. The meter touched two hundred feet per second per second acceleration, and then the drive was cut with a snap. The compressed elastomer rebounded, almost throwing the men from their chairs, but the cover bars held them in. The drive was completely off; acceleration zero. "Drake! Get the inertia switch in again!" called Hammond. "Going in," came the weakened voice of the pilot. The original twenty feet per started again, and it began to climb, just as it did before. "Stay alive," said Hammond to Drake. "We need you to shove the inertia switch in if nothing else."