There was flame in the night, blinding flame, and raucous, screeching
thunder. And a great round of gleaming metal rising shudderingly on a
cone of dazzling, roaring light. Rising to teeter at last on the tips
of long, sweeping fins, teeter and rock and walk a bit on those blades
of tempered nickel-steel, until the swaying tower ceased to gyrate
sickeningly across the stars, its motion settling into a quickening,
shortening arc that died away into a tremble, a vibration, a stillness.
Captain Savage took his gnarled and stubby fingers away from the firing
manuals and sat down, drawing a sleeve across his sopping brows.
"Nice work," said Pritchard. "One push and no correction blasts. Thy
hand hath not lost its skill."
The old man took a deep breath and grinned. "It's work for a younger
man. Next time I'm going to let you do it. Or Sturgis."
"There won't be a next time," said Pritchard flatly.
The captain cocked a bright eye up at him. Pritchard gazed out a
viewport. The horizon of Thisbe II lay like a worn hacksaw blade
against the purple glow of Piramus, rising.
"Set watches," he said briefly. "The rest of the company can turn to
for six hours. Then Sturgis, Greene, Kemp and I are going off in the
jets."
"Fishing, I suppose?" said Savage with gentle irony.