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"Decelerate!" yelled Tom over the intercom. Connel shut down the main drive rockets and at the same time opened the nose braking rockets. "Braking rockets on!" he yelled. "One thousand feet to touchdown," said Tom. Connel watched the dials spinning before him. "Seven hundred and fifty feet to touchdown," reported Tom. "Keep counting, Corbett!" yelled Connel enthusiastically. "Five hundred feet!"
"We can make it I think," Frank Nelsen said, speaking low and quick, and with the boldness of an enlivened body and brain. "We'll shoot up, out of the Belt entirely, then move parallel to it, backwards contrary to its orbital flow, that is. But being outside of it, we won't chance getting splattered by any fragments. Probably avoid some slobs, too. We'll decelerate, and cut back in, near Pallas.
"We're finished. The safety officer passed the word to secure the tubes, which means we're going to decelerate." He smiled grimly. "You all know they gave us this job just out of pure love for the Planeteers. So remember it when you go through the control room to the decontamination chamber." The Planeteers nodded enthusiastically.
It ceased to accelerate or decelerate. It ceased to steer. It began to turn slowly on an axis somewhere amidships. Its nose swung to one side, with no change in the direction of its motion. It floated onward. It was broadside to its line of travel. It continued to turn. It hurtled stern-first toward the Niccola. It did not swerve. It did not dance. It was a lifeless hulk: a derelict in space.
Torlos looked relieved, but he looked at the splintered arm rest and then at his hand. "It is best that I keep my too-strong hands away from your instruments." The ship was falling toward Nansal at a relatively slow rate, less than four miles a second. Arcot accelerated toward the planet for two hours, then began to decelerate.
People who saw him but had no intimate knowledge of his powers, marvelled that this frail, kindly, stooping old man, with his look of innocence that was almost sublime, could in reality be a giant in the world of money. Such was the case. Mr. Hilbert Torrington had his fingers on the financial pulse of the world and at a pressure could accelerate or decelerate it, to suit his mood.
Rip saw instantly what had happened. He called, "All right, men. Down on the floor." The Planeteers instantly slid to the shower deck. In a few seconds the pressure of deceleration pushed at them. "I like spacemen," Rip said wryly. "They wait until just the right moment before they cut the water and decelerate. Now we’re stuck in our birthday suits until we land—wherever that may be."
"Tiflin I don't know about. Could be... Hell, though what now? I suppose we're going in about the same direction and at the same speed as before? Have to watch the sun and planets to make sure. Did they leave us any instruments? Meanwhile, we might try to decelerate. I'd like to get out to Pluto sometime, but not equipped like this."
The control officer called, "I have it centered, sir. We’ll reach it in about an hour at this speed." "Jack it up," O’Brine ordered. "Heave some neutrons into it. Double speed, then decelerate to reach it in thirty minutes." The control officer issued orders to the engine control room. In a moment acceleration plucked at them. O’Brine motioned to Rip. "Come on, Foster.
"We’re finished. The safety officer passed the word to secure the tubes, which means we’re going to decelerate." He smiled grimly. "You all know they gave us this job just out of pure love for the Planeteers. So remember it when you go through the control room to the decontamination chamber." The Planeteers nodded enthusiastically.
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