"And you really believe id?"
"Sure."
"Id's sibly imbossible."
"I don't blame you for thinking so. But that's just why Alton likes it. If it was possible it wouldn't interest him. Miracles are his daily food. Gad, he's a wonder!"
"A hundred and eighty thouzand biles a zegond! Doe—thad's doo buch vor bee."
"No wonder you don't believe it. It surely is going some. Beats oxen."
"Aboud how log would id taig him to ged there ad thad rade?"
Here came a silence while the younger man did some figuring. "About five seconds. But of course no human being, even in an air-tight cylinder, could keep his head—or anything else, at that rate. He allows about twelve hours to get there."
"Dwelve hours! Vorty-eight billion biles in twelve hours! Why zo zlow?"
"Well, he's got to go slow through the six or seven miles of our atmosphere. Then, he doesn't know what sort of atmosphere surrounds Mars. So that'll take time like entering an unknown harbor. To be really safe he'll have to jog along slowly—on an average of four or five million miles an hour."