Furness came trudging out to the ship. It was a good two minutes before he arrived. He climbed heavily upward and swung to close the pressure door and dog it. He settled in his seat with a thud, and then reached forward and flipped the communicator switch. "Furness reporting, X-21 to control," he said into his microphone. "X-21 set to take off. Over." McCauley saw that his face was ashen white. "What's the matter, Furness?" he demanded sharply. "Anything wrong?" "All those precautions were no good," said Furness harshly. "The stuff that bled out of the fuel lines turned over when the rocket blast hit it. It blew. It made a hole in the ground and pebbles flew every which way like bullets. One of them ripped the side of the general's cap clean off. For a moment I thought the ship had gone." A tinny voice sounded from a speaker overhead. "_Control to X-21. Scheduled take-off time is now thirty-four seconds off. I will count down for time of take-off only._" A long pause. "_Twenty seconds._" Another pause. "_Fifteen._" A silence which seemed ages long. McCauley settled himself. Furness held one hand oddly against his side. McCauley held his finger over the jato button. "_Ten_," said the tinny voice. "_Nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... take-off-ti-._" The last syllable was never completed. McCauley hit the jato button and the Mark Twenty jatos flamed, instantly and together. The jolt of the one-second blast before had been severe. This was punishment. McCauley was slammed back into his acceleration chair with intolerable violence. For two--five--seven seconds there was no world but weight and bellowings. There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, nothing to be felt but the unbearable sound and intolerable pressure of the ship's acceleration. On the outside, of course, more detailed impressions were possible. From absolute immobility, the ship suddenly rushed forward with mountainous masses of jato fumes swirling and mushrooming behind it. The noise was deafening even at half a mile. Then the ship lifted, flying steadily and gaining velocity at a preposterous rate. Then that rate increased. McCauley knew when it happened. For six out of their life of fourteen seconds, the jatos pushed the ship ahead at an acceleration of eight gravities; in effect, McCauley was pushed back against his chair with a force of twelve hundred pounds. Then the ramjets caught. The ship was clear of the ground, with only inertia and air resistance to hold it back. The ramjets howled, and the whole ship jerked--a little to one side as well as ahead--and then the acceleration was ten gees. The difference was that between the unbearable and the unendurable. McCauley clamped his teeth fiercely and strained to survive this monstrous assault upon his consciousness and his life.