The _Mirzim_ went up in a screaming arc that crumpled Trehearne to the
deck. He clung to a stanchion and prayed that Joris had not lost his
skill.
He had not. Even the Vardda flesh had limits. So did metal and the
bones of ships. Joris knew to the fraction exactly how much they
could stand. The course had already been calculated. He cleared the
system, found his coordinates, then hammered the signal relays to the
generator rooms. The whine of the generators rose and the needle on the
acceleration master dial rose with it. Trehearne watched with bulging
eyes, gasping under the pressure, barely restraining an impulse to
scream. The second officer was clutching his chair, his face white.
Joris watched the dial. At the precise instant he punched the relay
bars again. The needle ceased to blur in its frantic ascent, climbing
now with a decent deliberation.
Joris turned around. He looked at his companions and shook with
laughter. He had, for the first time since Trehearne had known him, the
face of a completely happy man.
Trehearne staggered up. He got out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
There was blood on it as well as sweat. "Well," he said, "we're off.
But if you don't mind telling me now, Joris--where the devil are we off
to?"
"H'm," said Joris. "This may seem a little peculiar to you in view of
all the circumstances--"
He roared again with hearty mirth.
"I'll tell you, Trehearne. We're off to Thuvis."