There has always been, and will always be, the problem of surviving the experience that any trained expert can handle ... when there hasn't been any first survivor to be an expert! When no one has ever gotten back to explain what happened....
"Oil!" Deston exclaimed, involuntarily, as everything fell into place in his mind. The way she walked; poetry in motion ... the oil-witch ... two empires ... more millions than he had dimes.... "Oh, you're Barbara Warner, then."
"Why, of course; but my friends call me 'Bobby'. Didn't you--but of course you didn't--you never read passenger lists. If you did, you'd've got a tingle, too."
"I got plenty of tingle without reading, believe me. However, I never expected to----"
"Don't say it, dear!" She got up and took both his hands in hers. "I know how you feel. I don't like to let you ruin your career, either, but nothing can separate us, now that we've found each other. So I'll tell you this." Her eyes looked steadily into his. "If it bothers you the least bit, later on, I'll give every dollar I own to some foundation or other, I swear it."
He laughed shamefacedly as he took her in his arms. "Since that's the way you look at it, it won't bother me a bit."
A better-than-average space opera. Two crewmen and their wives (all conveniently psychic) and four (non-psychic) mobsters are the only surviving members of the crew and passengers when a hyper-space liner is knocked back into real space by a collision with a mysterious something.
They have to repair the ship, dispose of the bodies, figure out where they are, and reach a planet.
Because the guys are able to do anything, none of the dangers is ever very threatening, they're more like chores. The descriptions and characterizations are good, and the plot moves along. It's very good pulp writing, but don't expect a lot of hard science.