the screen. The Cluster Queen was drawingup to the last orbiting crate. He watched the large blip and the dotbecome one.
Abruptly, there was motion in the direct-view port overhead. The Queenand the crate drifted into view. He switched his gaze from the screenand watched grapples clamp the crate like giant mandibles, drawing itinto the Queen.
His chest and abdomen hurt and he wanted to get out of the seat andstretch, move around, do something. But that might be disastrous. IfAltman was going to play any more tricks with his tubes, he would beready to do it now, after the last box had been retrieved. And Bradrealized it wouldn't be healthy being shaken around inside anerratically 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 therewhen we blasted to avoid collision?"
Brad said nothing.
"Sorry if we warmed your tail," Altman continued. "But you should'astayed inside. Our instruments show you're getting close tospillthrough. Ain't you gonna do anything about it?"
Brad snapped to alertness. Now he realized the origin of the pains inhis stomach and chest--the pin-prick sensations that seemed to bespreading throughout his flesh. He glanced out the direct-view port.Altman was right. The sky was no longer a grid of star streaks. Thelines had shrunken; their lengths now stretched scarcely over three orfour degrees. The scope showed the Queen was still there spatially, butthe fuzziness of her outline indicated she was well out of danger--highup on the ascending node of the arc.
"What's on the program, Altman?" Brad asked bitterly. "Let me guess....I slip through the barrier. Passage at slow speed makes pretty much of apulpy mess out of my body. You pop the Queen through in amilli-second.... You got a nice story to tell: You arrived as I wasslipping through. You couldn't do anything to stop me. You plungedthrough after me. With a dead skipper aboard, the ship and cargo werefree to the first one who came along. You took the cargo, it being highpriority stuff. You left the ship, it being outdated, battered, uselessand drifting in normal interstellar where it would never be found. Youtook what was left of the skipper, it being good evidence tosubstantiate your tale."
"Now Brad, boy!" Altman stretched the words out in mock reprimand. "Youknow _I_ wouldn't do a thing like _that_. You know the West Clustercontract doesn't mean _that_ much to _me_!"
There was a long silence. Apparently Altman wasn't going to interruptit. Brad looked back at the scope. The Queen had withdrawn spatially andhyperspatially.
The pains in his body rose sharply and he grimaced, biting down on hislips. A knife slipped into his abdomen, twisted and shot up through hischest and into his head. Then an incendiary bomb went off somewhere inhis stomach.
He reached for the control of the good main hyperjet. Then, as his facecontorted with near agony, he punched down on it.
The pain left swiftly. The ship rattled and clanked and groundhatefully, its new cacophony of protest drowning out the old_clank-sss_, _boom_ and _throom-throom_. The small blurs in the skyelongated--five degrees, ten, twelve, twenty, twenty-five, forty.... TheCluster Queen's outline on the scope became sharp and then faded intofuzziness once more as the Fleury passed it hyperspatially along theascending node of the arc.
He pressed the normal drive jet lever and it spluttered weakly, creatingnot even enough discordant sounds in the wracked ship to drown out the_boom, throom, clank-sss_ symphony. The dot on the scope representingthe Queen faded into insignificance. With a sweep of his hand, he killedpower in the automatic distress transmitter.
Now it would take the Queen a little while to get a bearing on him alongfour co-ordinates. It would be a reprieve of several' hours--even theFleet ships couldn't do it in less time than that without a signal tohome in on.
He had no idea what the skipper of the Queen would do next. But at themoment he wasn't interested. The sharp pains were gone. But they hadbeen replaced by an uncontrollable, reactive nausea. He unclamped hissafety harness and stumbled to the jettison bin, holding a hand over hismouth. He made it just in time.
Then he dropped onto the bunk, exhausted.
* * * * *
The reprieve gained by his elusive tactics must have been a long one.When Brad awoke he felt fresher than he had at any time since the enginecompartment eruption. He had no way of knowing how long he had slept;the secondary bus bar off which the ship's clocks operated had gone upin the initial blast when a section of the plate from the ruptured tubejacket had smashed through the junction box.
Evenly spaced _swooshing_ sounds were emitting from the speaker. That,he realized, was what had awakened him. Someone was blowing into a miketo see if it was alive.
"SS Fleury, SS Fleury, SS Fleury," the sounds were suddenly exchangedfor words--Altman's.
Brad swung his legs out of the bunk and stood swaying, rubbing a handover his chafed, bearded face.
The elongated blip was back on the radar screen--clear, close.
"Answer, Conally," the receiver barked.
Brad strode to the panel and looked out the direct-view port He hadslept longer than he had at first suspected. The stellar trellis hadshortened considerably. They were back in the neighborhood of fifteendegrees.
"Distress Regulation Four-Oh-Eight-Two," the speaker droned, "says thatif a disabled ship don't answer by radio or visually within fifteenminutes after being called steadily, standby craft is to board it andmay take immediate possession."
"What do you want, Altman?" Brad said resignedly into the mike.
Altman hissed irritably. "Conally, there's no sense in playinghide-'n-seek with the little power you've got left. Get off that damnedpiece of junk and come aboard."
"Go to hell."
"Listen! I'm tired of wasting time! If you don't...."
"I'll sign a release and shoot it over to you. That's all you need toclear you of rescue and standby responsibility. I'll keep my distresssignal off until you get out of range."
"Uh-uh. It ain't as simple as that. I want your cargo. And I'm going toget it. Now let's be sensible. You know you don't have a chance."
"Maybe I've learned a few tricks."
The other snarled impatiently. "Okay, bright boy. I've had enough ofthis horseplay. I'm gonna let you see just the way things are.... Noticeanything odd? Any peculiar noises aboard the Fleury?"
* * * * *
Brad cocked his head toward the stern. The complaining clanks andgroans and off-beat thumpings maintained their steady rhythm. There weresome new noises.
"I been listening to it get louder for the past three hours," Altmanhinted.
Then Brad's ears picked it up--an erratic, excited_clackety-clack-clackety-clack_. He gasped.
Altman laughed. "That counter's setting up quite a sing-song, ain't it?I sorta think that pile might go _boom_ in a few hours. But I'm hoping Ican get your cargo aboard before then. You can come too if you want."
Brad swung swiftly and lurched for the passageway aft.
"Wish I was there to help you with the cad rod insertions," the laughingvoice raced after him.
The dial on the forward side of the shielded bulkhead readOh-Oh-point-Oh-Two-Four. He applied the figure to the adjacent graph andlearned he could remain in the engine compartment for one minute andfourteen seconds, with a safety factor of ten per cent. In that periodof time, he rationalized, he ought to be able to insert a sufficientnumber of cadmium control rods to bring the pile under control.
The counter clicked gratingly overhead as he undogged the hatch, swungit open and lunged into the steam-tormented acrid compartment.
He broke open the first locker and jerked the remaining three cad rodsfrom their racks. Coughing and waving smoke from in front of his face,he swung open the door of the first reserve compartment.
It was empty!
The second reserve compartment was empty too, as were the two emergencycompartments. Only three cadmium rods when he needed at least threedozen!
In a rapid dash around the pile block, he inserted the rods at spacedintervals in their slots. At least they would mean a few hours' grace.As he slid the last rod in he cursed himself and swore that if he evercommanded another ship he would not leave it unmanned at thedock--specifically if there was somebody like Altman berthed anywhere atthe same spaceport.
The ruptured hypertube jacket, he wondered suddenly, not losing hiscount of seconds. It seemed unlikely now that it had let go as a resultof defective material. He stepped to the flange that connected it withthe stern bulkhead.
The tube, inactivated immediately after the blowout, was cold. He lookedwhere his suspicions directed.... The aperture control valve had beenreadjusted! It had been displaced a full fifteen degrees on the topsideof optimum power! A