desire to frustrate the rocket at any cost. The next instant, somehow,
he was not angry at all. Because somehow his brain had dredged up the
fact that the war rocket could no more turn back than he could--and he
saw its meaning.

"Mike!" he snapped sharply. "Get set! Report what we do! Everybody set
for acceleration! Steering rockets ready, Chief! Get set to help, Haney!
I don't know whether we'll get out of this alive, but we'd better get
into our space suits."

Then he literally dived back to his acceleration chair and strapped in
in feverish haste. The ship was then a quarter of the way to the meeting
place and the rocket had very much farther to go. But it was rising
faster.

The ship's gyros whined and squealed as Joe jammed on their controls.
The little ship spun in emptiness. Its bow turned and pointed down. The
steering rockets made their roarings.

Joe found himself panting. "The--rocket's rising faster--than we are.
It's been gaining--altitude maybe--two minutes. It's lighter than
when--it started but--it can't stop--less than a minute, anyhow so we
duck under it----"

He did not make computations. There was no time. The war rocket might
have started at four or five gravities acceleration, but it would speed
up as its fuel burned. It might be accelerating at fifteen gravities
now, and have an attained velocity of four miles a second and still
increasing. If the little ship ducked under it, it could not kill that
rate-of-climb in time to follow in a stern chase.