At that moment all hell broke loose!
Up from the Venusian cloud blanket only a few miles below spurted a shower of golden sparks. All else forgotten, he blinked at them while his heart began pounding. They could only be ... they were the little globular ships of the Space Patrol. Travelling at four or five G's—much faster than the speed which the Champ had yet attained—they started closing in. Ahead of them, he knew, would be probing their fission torpedoes.
"Smart!" He heard Greta's voice in his ears. "I've got to hand it to 'em." She started scrabbling toward the airlock, cursing bitterly.
"Not smart enough," he answered, his heart sinking. "The Champ will accelerate and escape them within a few minutes. Then she'll circle and...."
"That's what you think, bud. Feel the hull."
Carlos was well aware of the danger, evidently. The great ship strained and heaved under them. Almost at Frank's feet a plate started its seams. The truth struck him like a blow. The Champ was not built for close quarters maneuvering. Her mass was so great ... her skeleton was relatively so weak ... that she was physically incapable of dodging the flexible patrol boats. And, since her tubes were still comparatively cool, she did not have the power to outdistance them.
"Come on S.P. Come on, you sons of guns," he whooped, staggering to his feet as a torpedo caromed into one of the Champ's jets and glanced off to explode harmlessly several miles away.
"You stinking Pumper!" He ducked as the words ripped through the phone. The bullet meant for his brain whined against the side of his helmet. "Luring me out here when I shoulda been gettin' a fix...."
There was no time to shift his shoes. He flung himself sidewise and just managed to grab the radar operator's wrist as she fired again.