I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER THIRTY

     He had thought there would be a pursuit. He kicked at the rudder pedals

and threw the stick; the scout ship rolled over and plunged toward the

ice cap at the north pole of the planet. At 16,000 m.p.h., the rocket

was little more than a guided missile and he knew that when he reached

the ice cap, he'd have to throttle back - but then so would his

pursuers.

      Beside him, on the seat, Nick Danson's head rolled from side to side as

the ship streaked toward the earth. The four scout ships were fanned out

behind him and trying to close, yet he was holding them at bay with a

mere 16,500 m.p.h. He wished frantically that he could have figured out

ways to stymie the chase, but star ships were not built to be sabotaged.

      The designers had done a damned good job on them, fitting them with

every device known to prevent crippling, or damaging by the enemy,

whoever it may be.

The four ships were hanging on him.

     I've got to lose them, he thought feverishly. I've got to lose them long

enough to get Danson back to the cabin and get the hell out again. After

that, they can have me. But not now. He looked behind him, trying to

determine whether or not they were getting set to fire on him.

     They didn't look it, but he couldn't tell. Weapons were not a scout

ship's strong point. Each ship was armed with a large rocket launcher,

but it was seldom used. Speed was the greatest weapon they needed and

the military designers of the home planet had poured all their energy

into the fast manoeuvring of the craft.

       The heavy caps of ice that covered the continent of Greenland loomed up

before him and he hoped that he could lose them in the white wilderness.

He would have to throttle back when he reached the jagged waste of ice,

but then so would the four behind him. They saw what he was attempting,

and poured all the power they could into their ships.

     Lors flattened the ship out in a shallow dive and pushed the throttle

control until it stopped. The needle on the airspeed indicator leaped

violently. 24,000 m.p.h. The ice rose against the windshield swiftly.

One of the scout ships closed and fired a rocket.

      He kicked at the rudder pedal and threw the ship to the left. The scout

ship responded like a nervous horse and fluttered away as the rocket

burned and arced beneath the underbelly.

     He pulled the throttle control back, cutting the speed of the ship and

shoving on the rudder as he hauled at the stick. The manoeuvre was too

fast for the ships behind him. They tore past him in silver flashes,

trying to correct their error. He streaked off toward the Azores