Hammond gaped. "Who? Us?"
"Who else?" snapped Drake.
The meter touched one-fifty.
"We're not doing anything. Level off, Drake, or you'll squash us flat!"
"You level off. I haven't had the power lever since I adjusted it before I hit the main switch. I can't even lift my arm now; I didn't expect you to run this heap of junk from up there and so I didn't adjust the arm rest."
The dial crept up past one-sixty.
"But we're not running it from here," yelled McBride. "We haven't touched a thing since Hammond told you to take it up at twenty feet per."
The automatic respirators started to work, pumping their rib-cages in rhythm with their own breathing urges, and they sank into the enveloping folds of the elastomer cushions which supported their bodies. The meter hit one-seventy and passed it.