“Here goes nothing,” I say. “All ahead full!”

“John, Paul, Ringo 100 percent.”

I’m thrown back into my seat as the ship lurches forward, with 1.5 g’s of gravity taking over as we accelerate in a straight line (maybe) toward the Blip-A (hopefully).

“Maintain thrust for three hours,” I say.

“Three hours. I watch engines. You relax.”

“Thanks, but no time for rest. Want to use gravity while I can.”

“I stay here. Tell me how experiments go.”

“Will do.”

I’m shooting for another eleven-day transfer. It takes 130 kilograms of fuel to make that happen—about a quarter of what the beetles have aboard (if you include George, who is sitting on the lab table full of Astrophage). That should give us enough left over to correct whatever idiotic mistakes I made in my trajectory math.

We’ll get up to cruising speed in three hours, then we’ll coast for most of eleven days. I don’t want to deal with spinning up or spinning down the centrifuge. Yes, it can be done—Rocky proved it when he zeroed us out before. But it was a delicate process with lots of guessing and opportunities for spinning out of control. Or worse—getting the cables tangled up.

So, for the next three hours I have 1.5 g’s to work with. After that it’ll be zero g for a while. Time to hit the lab.

I climb down the ladder. My arm hurts. But less than it has. I’ve been changing the bandages every day—or rather, Dr. Lamai’s medical marvel machine has been doing it. There’s definitely scarring all over the skin. I’m going to have an ugly arm and shoulder for the rest of my life. But I think the deeper layers of skin must have survived. If they hadn’t, I probably would have died of gangrene by now. Or Lamai’s machine would have amputated my arm when I wasn’t looking.

It’s been a while since I had to deal with1.5 g’s. My legs don’t approve. But I’m used to this sort of complaint at this point.

I walk to the main lab table, where the Taumoeba experiments are still in progress. Every part of them is firmly mounted to the table. Just in case we have more unexpected adventures in acceleration. Of course, it’s not like I’m short on Taumoeba. I have a bunch of them where my fuel used to be.

I check the Venus experiment first. The cooling mechanism whirs slightly, keeping the inside temperature correct for Venus’s extreme upper atmosphere. I originally intended to let the Taumoeba in there incubate for only an hour, but then the lights went off and we had other priorities. So now it’s been four days. If nothing else, they’ve had plenty of time to do their thing.

I gulp. This is an important moment. The small glass slide inside had a one-cell-thick layer of Astrophage. If the Taumoeba are alive and dining on Astrophage, light will be able to get through. The more light I see through that slide, the fewer Astrophage are still alive on it.