“Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8,500! We’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa- pocketa-pocketa. It’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. “We’re going through!” The Commander’s voice was like thin ice breaking.
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