Part 2 (1/2)
The Cl.u.s.ter Queen was no longer turning. It had stabilized, with its tubes pointed in the general direction of the Fleury and her floating crates.
Perspiration formed on Brad's forehead as he glanced up and saw the other s.h.i.+p steady itself, settling on a predetermined, split-hair heading. Somebody, he realized grimly, was doing a good job of aiming the vessel's stern.
He got additional speed out of his propulsor, but the tubes swung slowly as he covered more of the distance to his hatch. It seemed he couldn't escape his position of looking up into the mouths of the jets.
”I don't know, boss,” the speaker near his ear sounded again. ”Maybe he _is_ out there.”
”We better not take chances, then,” Altman was not hiding the heavy sarcasm in his words. ”Blast away!”
Brad kicked sideways, stiffened his arm and hit the wrist jet full force. He shot to one side on a course parallel with the Fleury.
A blinding gusher of raw energy exploded--a cone of blistering, scintillating force that streaked through s.p.a.ce between himself and the disabled s.h.i.+p. The aiming was perfect. Had he not swerved off when he did, had he stayed on his original course, he would have been in the center of the lance of h.e.l.l-power.
As he drifted shakily into the hatch, the Queen wasn't even a dot against the trellis of star traces. But, while he looked, a miniature lance of flame burst in the general direction in which Altman's vessel had gone--scores of miles away. He was maneuvering a standard turn to approach again, Brad realized.
If he repeated the performance against the hull of the Fleury, he would shake things up considerably, but at least the alloys of the plates could stand the heat--possibly the thrust too ... but not for long.
Invigorating effects of hot coffee flowed through Brad as he sat strapped in the pilot's seat and allowed himself the luxury of a cigarette.
But his eyes were fastened on the screen. The Cl.u.s.ter Queen was drawing up to the last orbiting crate. He watched the large blip and the dot become one.
Abruptly, there was motion in the direct-view port overhead. The Queen and the crate drifted into view. He switched his gaze from the screen and watched grapples clamp the crate like giant mandibles, drawing it into the Queen.
His chest and abdomen hurt and he wanted to get out of the seat and stretch, move around, do something. But that might be disastrous. If Altman was going to play any more tricks with his tubes, he would be ready to do it now, after the last box had been retrieved. And Brad realized it wouldn't be healthy being shaken around inside an erratically spinning compartment.
”That's the last one, Altman,” he spoke dully into the mike.
”Say!” The irony was still in the other's voice. ”Were you out there when we blasted to avoid collision?”
Brad said nothing.
”Sorry if we warmed your tail,” Altman continued. ”But you should'a stayed inside. Our instruments show you're getting close to spillthrough. Ain't you gonna do anything about it?”
Brad snapped to alertness. Now he realized the origin of the pains in his stomach and chest--the pin-p.r.i.c.k sensations that seemed to be spreading throughout his flesh. He glanced out the direct-view port.
Altman was right. The sky was no longer a grid of star streaks. The lines had shrunken; their lengths now stretched scarcely over three or four degrees. The scope showed the Queen was still there spatially, but the fuzziness of her outline indicated she was well out of danger--high up on the ascending node of the arc.
”What's on the program, Altman?” Brad asked bitterly. ”Let me guess....
I slip through the barrier. Pa.s.sage at slow speed makes pretty much of a pulpy mess out of my body. You pop the Queen through in a milli-second.... You got a nice story to tell: You arrived as I was slipping through. You couldn't do anything to stop me. You plunged through after me. With a dead skipper aboard, the s.h.i.+p and cargo were free to the first one who came along. You took the cargo, it being high priority stuff. You left the s.h.i.+p, it being outdated, battered, useless and drifting in normal interstellar where it would never be found. You took what was left of the skipper, it being good evidence to substantiate your tale.”
”Now Brad, boy!” Altman stretched the words out in mock reprimand. ”You know _I_ wouldn't do a thing like _that_. You know the West Cl.u.s.ter contract doesn't mean _that_ much to _me_!”
There was a long silence. Apparently Altman wasn't going to interrupt it. Brad looked back at the scope. The Queen had withdrawn spatially and hyperspatially.
The pains in his body rose sharply and he grimaced, biting down on his lips. A knife slipped into his abdomen, twisted and shot up through his chest and into his head. Then an incendiary bomb went off somewhere in his stomach.
He reached for the control of the good main hyperjet. Then, as his face contorted with near agony, he punched down on it.