“You see?” Boone said, smiling grimly. As yet, no one saw. His face still set in a grim smile, Ackerman Boone headed above decks.
“That, Mr. President,” Vice Admiral T. Shawnley Stapleton said gravely, “is the problem. We would have come to you sooner, sir, but frankly—”
“I know it, Admiral,” the President said quietly. “I could not have helped you in any way. There was no sense telling me.”
“We have one chance, sir, and one only. It’s irregular and it will probably knock the hell out of the Glory of the Galaxy, but it may save our lives. If we throw the ship suddenly into subspace we could pass right through the sun’s position and—”
“I’m no scientist, Admiral, but wouldn’t that put tremendous stress not only on the ship but on all of us aboard?”
“It would, sir. I won’t keep anything from you, of course. We’d all be subjected to a force of twenty-some gravities for a period of several seconds. Here aboard the Glory, we don’t have adequate G-equipment. It’s something like the old days of air flight, sir: as soon as airplanes became reasonably safe, passenger ships didn’t bother to carry parachutes. Result over a period of fifty years: thousands of lives lost. We’d all be bruised and battered, sir. Bones would be broken. There might be a few deaths. But I see no other way out, sir.”
“Then there was no need to check with me at all, I assure you, Admiral Stapleton. Do whatever you think is best, sir.”
The Admiral nodded gravely. “Thank you, Mr. President. I will say this, though: we will wait for a miracle.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”