They lay, tensed and motionless, waiting for the sudden thrust that would hurl them into space.
It was the two-hundred-and-twentieth day.
As Curtis Delman returned to consciousness, his first feeling was of relief. The cumulative strain of one takeoff after another could prove disastrous. It was one of the drawbacks to a spaceboat that the effect of rapid acceleration should be so marked. In a liner, the takeoff was little more than an inconvenience—and, despite exhaustive tests, there was no telling how an old heart would react to a series of blackouts. Now the danger no longer existed, for in thirty days they would arrive at Rejuvenal. As for the journey back, he would make it with the heart of a young man.
He unclipped the safety harness and lowered his legs over the side of the bunk.
He had no wish to remain in his cabin. It was too small for comfort, though, like all Stellano products, superbly designed. Not an inch had been wasted. Personal luggage was stowed under the bunk, cupboards were built in, tables folded back and even the basin was retractable. Every conceivable necessity had been crammed into a few square feet.
When he reached the lounge, he found the others already seated.
There were two vacant chairs, one next to John Bridge, the other between Tarsh and Pellinger. He chose the former.
"So you survived?" said Pellinger. He sounded disappointed.
"Yes, I survived," replied Delman. "And since we appear to be exercising our powers of observation, I hope the same may be said of you?"