His face was the color of a 'dobe hut.
"I heard it," he croaked feebly, and stared at Biggs with lacklustre
eyes. "Trouble, trouble; nothin' but trouble! Lanse, is there anything
we can do to speed up a little?"
Biggs shook his head. "No," he groaned. "We're spinning the V-I unit
almost at maximum acceleration now--185,000 plus. If we boost it any
higher we're taking chances. We may exceed the limiting velocity of
light and lose ourselves in the negative universe like we did once
before." A sudden anger disturbed his usual calm complacency. "If we
lose this race," he stormed, "the Company has nobody to blame but
itself! _They_ merchandised the V-I unit and made it available to every
ship in space. Still--we must beat the C.C. to Iapetus, even if we have
to take chances."
He turned to me suddenly. "Sparks, call Jenkins again. See if you can
get an exact locus on the _Gemini_."
I did so. A few minutes later Biggs was seated at my plot table,
anxiously scanning the course trajectories of both their ship and ours,
reeling off involved and typically Biggsian mathematics that would have
warped the gears of a calculating machine. The creases on his brow
etched deeper as his columns of figures grew longer. Finally he stopped
scribbling, lifted his head.
"Well?" asked the Old Man with bated breath. "What's the answer, son?"
"It's close," Biggs told us. "Perilously close. As near as I can
figure, it's a nip and tuck race. They started later than we did, but
their point of departure was nearer our mutual goal. From the viewpoint
of distance alone, they should drop gravs on Iapetus one hour before we
do."
* * * * *