McCauley had a momentary impulse to try to make some crack or other that would be appropriate, express how he felt, and so on. But he didn't feel as he'd expected to. And anything like that would sound like showing off. So he just answered matter-of-factly: "That's good." He waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. The voice in his helmet phones said abruptly: "_Ten seconds ... Nine ... Eight ... Seven ... Six ... Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ... One...._" During the last second McCauley remembered to put his arms in the armrests, because the acceleration was going to be all he could take. _All._ If his arms hung down, the blood would engorge his fingers and swell them to uselessness. He was already scrounged down in place, and he had his chin in the chinrest of the helmet--the whole helmet had a fitting to support it--so if he blacked out his tongue wouldn't slide back down his throat and strangle him. Something hit him. It hit him all over at the same instant, as if he were being slammed in a million places by a million six-ounce gloves all at once. Something grabbed his legs and squeezed his belly and blew air in his face, and the roar was numbing, but he didn't remember hearing it begin. He'd expected all of it but he reacted by quite automatically getting raging mad. He knew he was on the way up and he felt thrilled and furious and he hurt all over, simultaneously. It was agony, but if he could have grinned he'd have done it. Everything had gone off all right! Nothing was wrong! It was too late for anything to stop the shoot now! It was happening! His stomach felt terrifically tight against the corset-like front of the grav-suit. The legs squeezed--hard! That puff of wind was extra air pressure to protect his lungs. He suffered, and he was half blind, and he fought for breath, but that extra air pressure helped a lot. All the blood tried to come down out of his brain and his cheeks sagged and his ears would have flopped down if it weren't for the headphones holding them flat against his head. Suddenly things were easier. The booster'd burned out and dropped off. McCauley remembered to grunt, to say that he hadn't lost consciousness in the first intolerable getaway acceleration. The two small electric bulbs had seemed to turn reddish. He made a mental note to mention it presently. The pressure was still monstrous. He seemed to weigh tons--actually he did weigh an appreciable part of one--but his weight was less than it had been. That first slamming was the take-off, lasting barely seconds though it felt like long minutes. This second-stage acceleration would last more than a minute. It would seem like hours.