A week later the word spread like lightning through the lab. Hans had died, screaming. His screams were not due to pain. (Radiation burns are almost painless.) They were torn out of him by the knowledge that he could not live to direct the test of strength with United Stars. The cream of the jest was that, as the director breathed his last, word was flashed from Nirvana that the duel would begin "somewhere in space" at 2400 sideral time, July 14—just three days away.
Carlos called a war council immediately after the funeral. Present were Fritz, previously the second mate; the radiation-scarred chief engineer; two shifty-eyed deck officers; Greta, and Frank.
"I don't understand these orders," the Spaniard raged, twisting his moustache as if trying to tear it out by the roots. "They tell me to blast off at 2400, but they don't name the battle area. This is another New Washington trick. Do they expect me to search the universe for those confounded Space Patrol tubs?"
"The S.P. ships have just about enough range to get from the Moon to Venus, or vice versa," Fritz volunteered. "They carry very little air. We can cruise around until they exhaust their supplies, then shoot 'em like ducks." He licked his thick lips.
"I can get a radar fix on them in no time," said Greta from within her cloud of cigar smoke. "Don't be disturbed, sir." Her eyes were cold.
"Oh!" Carlos struggled to hide his chagrin. "Dismissed. Get the ship ready for blast-off."
Shortly afterward, loudspeakers blared throughout the lab. Men ran in all directions. Food and other perishables not already aboard began to be loaded with hysterical speed.
At midnight on the fourteenth, the Champ nosed her way through the watertight lock of her caisson, climbed like leviathan through the miledeep cloud layer of Venus and, dripping water from her splendid sides, leaped into the ebony sky. On the bridge, Carlos, Fritz, Frank and Greta crouched over their instruments as the shadowy planet sank beneath them. Frank's heart was throbbing as he sought wildly for some method of stopping the invincible monster. He could shoot Carlos.... He could jam the throttle.... He could.... A glance at four robot-like soldiers who guarded the doors showed him the impossibility of doing anything whatsoever; he was trapped.
"She's running perfectly, sir," intoned Fritz, his water-blue eyes fixed on the leaping indicators. "Peroxides working perfectly. Approaching speed of sound."
"Sonic it is, mister." Carlos' voice shook ever so slightly. As if in answer, the Champ shook, too, as she hit the turbulence. They clung to their padded seats for a moment as she rolled and plunged, then relaxed as the barrier was pierced and the thinning atmosphere whined more and more faintly along her sides.