“We have some pretty severe course and speed corrections coming up,” the younger pilot said. “Do you want to advise your wife?”

Garamond nodded gratefully. The sky in the forward view panels had already turned from deep blue to black as the shuttle’s tubes hurled it clear of the atmosphere. In a maximum-energy ballistic-style sortie it was understood that there was no time for niceties — the computer which was controlling the flight profile would subject passengers to as much stress, within programmed limits, as they could stand. Garamond edged backwards until he could see Aileen and Chris. “Get ready for some rollercoaster stuff,” he told them. “Don’t try to fight the ship or you’ll be sick. Just go with it and the restraint field will hold you in place.” They both nodded silently, in unison, eyes fixed on his face, and he felt a crushing sense of responsibility and guilt. He had barely finished speaking when a series of lateral corrections twisted space out of its normal shape, pulling him to the left and then upwards away from the floor. The fierce pressure of the bulkhead against his back prevented him from being thrown around but he guessed that his wife and son must have been lifted out of their seats. An involuntary gasp from Aileen confirmed her distress.

“It won’t be long now,” he told her. Stars were shining in the blackness ahead of the shuttle, and superimposed on the random points of light was a strip of larger, brighter motes, most of which had visible irregularities of shape. Polar Band One glittered like a diamond bracelet, at the midpoint of which Sector Station 8 flared with a yellowish brilliance. The two distinct levels of luminosity, separating man-made objects from the background of distant suns, created a three-dimensional effect, an awareness of depth and cosmic scale which Garamond rarely experienced when far into a mission. He remained with the pilots, braced between their seats and the bulkhead, while the shuttle drew closer to the stream of orbiting spaceships and further corrections were applied to match speed and direction. By this time Starflight Admincom would have tried to contact the Bissendorf and would probably be taking other measures to prevent his escape.

“There’s your ship,” the senior pilot commented, and the note of satisfaction in his voice put Garamond on his guard. “It looks like you’re a little late. Captain — there’s another shuttle already drifting into its navel.”

Garamond, unused to orienting himself with the cluttered traffic of the Polar Band, had to search the sky for several seconds before he located the Bissendorf and was able to pick out the silvered bullet of a shuttle closing in on the big ship’s transfer dock. He felt a cool prickling on his forehead. It was impossible for the other shuttle to have made better time on the haul up from Earth, but Admincom must have been able to divert one which was already in orbit and instruct it to block the Bissendorf’s single transfer dock.

“What do you want to do, Captain?” The blue-chinned senior pilot had begun to enjoy himself. “Would you like to hand over that gun now?”

Garamond shook his head. “The other shuttle’s making a normal docking approach. Get in there before him.”

“It’s too late.”

Garamond placed the muzzle of the pistol against the pilot’s neck. “Ram your nose into that dock, sonny.”

“You’re crazy, but I’ll try.” The pilot fixed his eyes on the expanding shape of the Bissendorf, then spun verniers to bring his sighting crosshairs on to the red-limned target of the dock which was already partially obscured by the other shuttle. As he did so the retro tubes began firing computer-controlled bursts which cut their forward speed. “I told you it was too late.”

“Override the computer,” Garamond snapped. “Kill those retros.”

“Do you want to commit suicide?”

“Do you?” Garamond pressed the pistol into the other man’s spine and watched as he tripped out the autocontrol circuits. The image of the competing shuttle and the docking target expanded in the forward screen with frightening speed. The pilot instinctively moved backwards in his seat. “We’re going to hit the other shuttle, for Christ’s sake!”

“I know,” Garamond said calmly. “And after we do you’ll have about two seconds to get those crosshairs back on target. Now let’s see how good you are.”

The other shuttle ballooned ahead of and slightly above them until they were looking right into its main driver tubes, there was a shuddering clang which Garamond felt in his bones, the shuttle vanished, and the vital docking target slewed away to one side. Events began to happen in slow motion for Garamond. He had time to monitor every move the pilot made as he fired emergency corrective jets which wrenched the ship’s nose back on to something approximating its original bearing, time to brace himself as retros hammered on the craft’s frame, even time to note and be grateful for the discovery that the pilot was good. Then the shuttle speared into the Bissendorf’s transfer dock at five times the maximum permitted speed and wedged itself into the interior arrester rings with a shrieking impact which deformed its hull.

Garamond, the only person on the shuttle not protected by a seat, was driven forward but was saved from injury by the restraint field’s reaction against any violent movement of his clothing. He felt a surge of induced heat pass through the material, and at the same time became aware of a shrill whistling sound from the rear of the ship. A popping in his ears told him that air was escaping from the shuttle into the vacuum of the Bissendorf’s dock. A few seconds later Chris began to sob, quietly and steadily. Garamond went aft, knelt before the boy and tried to soothe him.

“What’s happening, Vance?” The brightly-coloured silk of Aileen’s dress was utterly incongruous.

“Rough docking, that’s all. We’re losing some air but they’ll be pressurizing the dock and…” He hesitated as a warbling note came from the shuttle’s address system. “They’ve done it — that’s the equalization signal to say we can get out now. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“But we’re falling.”

“We aren’t falling, honey. Well, we are — but not downwards…” It came to Garamond that he had no time at that moment to introduce his wife to celestial mechanics. “I want you and Chris to sit right here for a few minutes. Okay?”

He stood up, opened the passenger door and looked out at a group of officers and engineering personnel who had gathered on the docking bay’s main platform. Among them was the burly figure of Cliff Napier. Garamond launched himself upwards from the sill and allowed the slight drag of the ship’s restraint field to curve his weightless flight downwards on to the steel platform where his boots took a firm grip. Napier caught his arm while the other men were saluting.

“Are you all right, Vance? That was the hairiest docking I ever saw.”

“I’m fine. Explain it all later, Cliff. Get through to the engine deck and tell them I want immediate full power.”

“Immediate?”

“Yes — there’s a streamer of nova dust lagging behind the main weather front and we’re going to catch it. I presume you’ve preset the course.”

“But what about the shuttle and its crew?”

“We’ll have to take the shuttle with us, Cliff. The shuttle and everybody on it.” “I see.” Napier raised his wrist communicator to his lips and ordered full power. He was a powerfully built bull-necked man with hands like the scoops of a mechanical digger, but there was a brooding intelligence in his eyes. “Is this our last mission for Starflight?”

“It’s my last, anyway.” Garamond looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. “I’m in deep, Cliff — and I’ve dragged you in with me.”

“It was my decision — I didn’t have to pull the plug on the communications boys. Are they coming after you?”