Three g's. Four. He yelled over his shoulder, "How you doin' back there? Comfortable?"
There was no reply. He grinned and stepped up the acceleration. Seven g's. Eight. The gravity was tearing at him like a demon's claws, but he clung to consciousness.
A figure ran through his mind:
Mars—gravity, O.38. He could stand two-and-a-half times as much acceleration as the blueskins behind him. His Earth-trained muscles, used to responding to a much heavier grav, could handle eight g's without too much strain. The Martians must be having fits.
Nine g's. Ten. He turned, looked back for the first time.
Reddish-brown blood trickled from Das Shamra's fleshy lips. The blaster had long since fallen from his limp hand and lay on the spaceship's deck. They were all unconscious—all of them, battered and beaten by the sort of acceleration an Earthman was able to take with relative ease.
Grinning savagely, Kendall boosted the thrust until he nearly blacked out himself. Then he seized the controls and started to reverse the ship.
Some time later, he landed it neatly outside the Space Service headquarters. Taking a loving look at the Martians, with their wrenched, distorted faces, he scooped up Das Shamra's blaster and opened the hatch.
The computer technician he had fought with before came running out on the landing field.
"What is the meaning of this? An unauthorized flight? Who are you? Oh—Kendall!"