"One ship finished and given a trial run," wrote the cripple. "The Underground managed to get 542 on board but I haven't received any information for weeks." "How about her speed?" Frank put in. "Last report from 542 said she travels at One Gravity acceleration," was the scribbled reply. "One G?" The spaceman wanted to laugh but dared not because of that scarred, impassive face. "Why that's only a little more than 32 feet per second. My patrol ship can hit ten G's." "You got me wrong," came the answer. "One G is only 16.1 feet for the first second, but after that, the speed of the new ship increases steadily at the rate of 32.2 feet per second." "Wow! I see what you mean." Frank did some quick calculation. "She can reach Earth in three days or so. Our ships have to take more than a month for the same run because they hit maximum speed soon after blast-off and coast the rest of the way to save fuel." "And since the new ship has some sort of super-fuel, there need be no limit to her size," Sadie exclaimed. "She can carry plenty of food, air and water, so crews can remain conscious at all times. Crews can move about on shipboard as comfortably as they do on the ground because her constant acceleration--or deceleration after she reaches turnover point--will act as a substitute for gravity. This is big, Frank. Bigger than we thought." "Man can reach for the stars," wrote Jack. "Or finally blow himself to smithereens." This from Frank. "The Shots have us licked this time if we don't stop them quick." "Can we raid that lab?" asked the girl. "Not a chance." The pencil raced. "Only a tark could get into it." "Then we'll have to fish a tark out of some sewer." Sadie thought deeply for a moment, then slapped her round thigh. "Not a bad idea at that!... Well, Jack, how about a place to sleep?" They spent the night in an air-conditioned subterranean chamber. Jack had beautifully forged passports ready for them when they awoke. After bidding him goodby they mounted endless stairs to emerge at last onto a busy street. * * * * * Even in the pearly daylight--Venusians seldom see their monstrous sun, and then only with regret--they found that the city had lost none of its brittle charm ... its hectic Coney Island dash. Incors by the score already were entering its blatant palaces, intent on squandering their last few silver dollars or gold nuggets in an effort to forget their grinding, hopeless toil in mine or jungle. Others, better dressed and cockier, evidently had made a stake. They were going to the dens, usually to gamble away their winnings, but once in a while to pyramid them into the coveted million which meant freedom and a proud place in Wildoatian society. A few Big Shots were drifting into the more expensive and exotic pleasure haunts, there to lord it over lesser men, take their pick of lesser women and indulge every whim their jaded fancies could invent.