"Stratosphere clear," Frank sang out. "On orbit."
"Hard fix on the Moon, sir." This from Greta.
"On orbit. Radar fix on the Moon. Get set for turnover." Carlos slid the throttle quadrant forward. Bells jangled throughout the hull. Like a seal the ship obeyed her helm. The bulkhead, on which they were seated, slowly became the left wall of the control room while the true floor assumed its rightful place and their chairs swivelled automatically. Otherwise, except for the shift of stars outside the ports, they scarcely knew that the Champ had attained broadside-on position.
"Space drive position," called Fritz. "Cut peroxides."
"Peroxides cut." The commander's hands flew over the controls. "Atomics warming up."
There was a moment when they were weightless and oddly uncomfortable, as though falling from a great height. Then they returned to normal with the first faint pulse of the new drive. Beneath their feet, translucent ports in the floor turned ruddy, then blazed with an unholy, growing splendor.
"One microsecond deviation from orbit." This from Frank.
Carlos made a quick adjustment. The telltale on the softly-glowing sky chart centered itself.
"On orbit," the astrogator amended.