"The S.P. ships have just about enough range to get from the Moon to Venus, or vice versa," Fritz volunteered. "They carry very little air. We can cruise around until they exhaust their supplies, then shoot 'em like ducks." He licked his thick lips. "I can get a radar fix on them in no time," said Greta from within her cloud of cigar smoke. "Don't be disturbed, sir." Her eyes were cold. "Oh!" Carlos struggled to hide his chagrin. "Dismissed. Get the ship ready for blast-off." Shortly afterward, loudspeakers blared throughout the lab. Men ran in all directions. Food and other perishables not already aboard began to be loaded with hysterical speed. At midnight on the fourteenth, the _Champ_ nosed her way through the watertight lock of her caisson, climbed like leviathan through the miledeep cloud layer of Venus and, dripping water from her splendid sides, leaped into the ebony sky. On the bridge, Carlos, Fritz, Frank and Greta crouched over their instruments as the shadowy planet sank beneath them. Frank's heart was throbbing as he sought wildly for some method of stopping the invincible monster. He could shoot Carlos.... He could jam the throttle.... He could.... A glance at four robot-like soldiers who guarded the doors showed him the impossibility of doing anything whatsoever; he was trapped. "She's running perfectly, sir," intoned Fritz, his water-blue eyes fixed on the leaping indicators. "Peroxides working perfectly. Approaching speed of sound." "Sonic it is, mister." Carlos' voice shook ever so slightly. As if in answer, the _Champ_ shook, too, as she hit the turbulence. They clung to their padded seats for a moment as she rolled and plunged, then relaxed as the barrier was pierced and the thinning atmosphere whined more and more faintly along her sides. "Stratosphere clear," Frank sang out. "On orbit." "Hard fix on the Moon, sir." This from Greta. "On orbit. Radar fix on the Moon. Get set for turnover." Carlos slid the throttle quadrant forward. Bells jangled throughout the hull. Like a seal the ship obeyed her helm. The bulkhead, on which they were seated, slowly became the left wall of the control room while the true floor assumed its rightful place and their chairs swivelled automatically. Otherwise, except for the shift of stars outside the ports, they scarcely knew that the _Champ_ had attained broadside-on position. "Space drive position," called Fritz. "Cut peroxides." "Peroxides cut." The commander's hands flew over the controls. "Atomics warming up." * * * * * There was a moment when they were weightless and oddly uncomfortable, as though falling from a great height. Then they returned to normal with the first faint pulse of the new drive. Beneath their feet, translucent ports in the floor turned ruddy, then blazed with an unholy, growing splendor. "One microsecond deviation from orbit." This from Frank.