The meter passed thirty and headed for forty feet per second per second.
"Little over one Terran G," mentioned Pete. "She probably has the usual Pilot's Fever."
"I know," agreed Hammond, "but her inherent desire to grab sky shouldn't make her play foolish with a brand-new drive."
The meter touched fifty for an instant and then went on up toward sixty. It did not stop at the green line that indicated two Terran G, but passed it and proceeded on toward seventy feet per. It climbed to eighty, passed, approached ninety, passed, and still climbed with a precise linearity that made the men admire the steady hand on the main power lever in spite of whose hand it was.
At one hundred feet per second per second, Hammond said: "When is that dame going to stop?"
"Call her down," suggested Larry.
"Better wait. No use making her nervous this close to Pluto. Bawl her out and she's likely to make the wrong move—and one move would be too much!"
The pressure of 4-G held them to their padded seats, and their heads were fixed immobile in the head braces, all watching the dial climb. It passed one-thirty, went on up the dial to one-forty, and then the voice of Sandra Drake said, weakly:
"When are you fools going to stop?"