"We've got to turn back. Send the message down to the engine-room. Reverse motors and lift!"
Diane cried, "Daddy! But Lanse—"
"I'm sorry, honey. But we can't risk twenty lives and a quarter million credits' worth of Corporation property on the hazard of finding one man. Give the order, Mr. Todd!"
Todd said willingly, "Aye, sir!" and reached out to push the audio stud. My heart sank. The needle was almost upon the split second that should have seen us putting Biggs' mysterious plan into operation. I yelled, "Skipper, please!"
"Give the order, Todd!" repeated Hanson regretfully.
But Todd's hand never reached the button. For just then there came a terrific, straining lunge of the ship; the floor seemed to slip beneath my feet, I toppled headlong to my knees. Plates groaned and creaked in metal agony. I felt a sensation of wild acceleration, a dizzying sense of speed intensified, plunging us forward—downward—
And Todd cried, "Too late! Too late, Skipper! God help us—we're falling onto Jupiter!"
I told you folks say I'm hard-boiled. People also claim I'm a wingding. They say lots of things about me—none of them nice. But I'll say this one thing for myself in self-defense. That once in a million times I show a good streak of common sense.
This was one of those times. While everyone else was wailing and hollering and going off the top of their buds, I got smart and carried on.