"Then who is running the soup up?" came back the labored voice of Sandra Drake. "If this is just a joke, cut it. I can't take much more."
"You—and all of us are doing well to take what we're getting now," stormed McBride. "Who—"
"Something's amiss somewhere," said Hammond thoughtfully. "At this point, any gagster would quit. Look at the meter. One hundred and ninety feet per! Almost 7-G! Uh—"
Black waves and dizziness came, shrouding little dazzles of colored pinpoints that danced before the eyes. The meter touched two hundred feet per second per second acceleration, and then the drive was cut with a snap. The compressed elastomer rebounded, almost throwing the men from their chairs, but the cover bars held them in.
The drive was completely off; acceleration zero.
"Drake! Get the inertia switch in again!" called Hammond.
"Going in," came the weakened voice of the pilot.
The original twenty feet per started again, and it began to climb, just as it did before. "Stay alive," said Hammond to Drake. "We need you to shove the inertia switch in if nothing else."
"I don't care to die," came her hard voice. "I'll keep alive. You pack of fools figure out what's wrong with your invention, that's all I ask."