"Why?"
"If it is," explained Steve, "we'll be halfway to the Lens in three hours from start—no, wait a minute. We're running at sixty feet now. That means a little better than two hours! But if they are correct, we'll be hitting almost two times the speed of light. That is not possible."
"I think we'll do it," said McBride. "After all, we're in a space warp, and no one really knows whether the laws of the universe hold in a space warp. Drake hit the Lens at about ten thousand miles per second, was stopped in time to get to one of the fore lens stations, which must have been terrific deceleration—unthinkably high—and it didn't even muss her hair. We'll know in a bit when we are supposed to hit the speed of light."
"Then for the love of Mike, what is our limiting velocity?"
"The same as any of the gravitic spectra. Gravitic phenomena propagates at the speed of light raised to the power of 2.71828—That's our limiting velocity."
"Want to make any bets?"
"I don't mind. My guess is as good as yours."
"Better," admitted Steve.
Below, in the pilot room, Sandra Drake was having a state of nerves. She was alone in the driver's seat of a ship destined to exceed the speed of light, and she was scared. For some reason, the men who professed to shy at danger were arguing the possibilities of running above the speed of light while she, who had lived the life of an adventuresome girl, a daredevil, was worrying. She listened through the communicator at their argument and cursed under her breath.