"They wouldn't lean at all if we were running with the whole set of equipment," said Darlange. "We run a complete turnover without spilling a drop from the swimming pool." "Or even making the passengers aware of it unless they're looking at the sky." "Stop worrying about it," said Doc. "I'm the only guy who has to worry about it and as long as the floor is still a floor, I can stand sliding into the corner once in a while." "We might tinker with the turnover drivers," offered Don. "We can bring 'em down to a place where the velocity-deceleration vectors are perpendicular to the floor upon which we stand while our ship is sluing. We've got a lot of time on our hands, and I, for one, feel a lot happier when I'm doing something." "It's a thought," said Hadley. "Wanna try it?" "Let's go." * * * * * Thirty hours after the _Relay Girl_ left the Station, Walt and Franklen held a council of war, in which Charley Bren was the prime factor. "We've come about two hundred million miles, and our present velocity is something like four thousand miles per second," said Walt. "We're going out towards Mars on a slightly-off radial course, to the North of the ecliptic. That means we're a little over a quarter of a billion miles from Sol, or about to hit the Asteroid Belt. Thinking it over a little, I think we should continue our acceleration for another thirty hours. What say?" "The field has shown no change in intensity that I can detect," said Bren. "If they haven't dropped their radiated intensity, that means that we are no closer to them than we were before. Of course, we'd probably have to cut the distance by at least a half before any measurable decrement made itself evident." "They must be on the upper limit of that four thousand MPS," observed Walt. "There's one thing certain, we'll never catch them by matching their speed." "Where will another thirty hours at 6-G put us and how fast?" asked Franklen. Silence ensued while they scribbled long figures on scratch paper. "About eight hundred million miles from Sol," announced Walt. "And about eight thousand MPS," added Charley. "That's a little extreme, don't you think?" asked Franklen. "By about thirty percent," said Walt, scratching his chin. "If we hold to our original idea of hitting it for six thousand, where will we be?" "That would make it about forty-five hours from take-off, and we'd be about four hundred and sixty million miles from Sol." Charley grinned widely and said: "By Jove!" "What?" "By Jove!" "'By Jove!' What?" "That's where we'd be--By Jove!" "_Phew._" "I agree with you," said Franklen to Walt. "Better ignore him."