"Holcomb!" He must have guessed what I was working myself up to do,
because there was sheer desperation in his voice, but I cut him off.
"Shut up, Harry! I told you I was quitting. You know the racket I'm in.
You don't just quit it. You go out with your hand on the wheel and your
jets full on. _And here I come!_"
I fed flame into my portside jets, throwing the mike away from me as
I grabbed the controls. The ship arced over, singing her death-song
in snapping stanchions and straining plates, in the angry howl of the
converters, in the drumfire of jets that coughed and choked as fuel
poured into them, but which opened their throats and bellowed just the
same.
"Ash!" That was Pat.
"Holcomb!" That was Thorsten.
But I was pure metal-jacketed, fireborne death, howling silently toward
the sleek cruiser that was Thorsten's flagship, the best known and most
feared silhouette in space.
* * * * *
The gates of Hell opened in space. Every ship in the hemisphere ahead
of me vomitted fire as the ones behind me and beside me lanced out of
the way of the arrowing missiles.
There was no way for Thorsten to avoid me. Fire blossomed at the
throats of his jets, and the flagship shot forward.