He looked at his screens. "I don't see any sign of them and the warning light is broken. If you're so worried about 'drunk' ships, keep your eye on that viewer there. I have other things to do."

He picked up the tug-control microphone. "Go up fifty thousand miles and sound a gong when we are through the magnetosphere."

That also scared me. The forty-thousand-mile-wide belt around the planet was composed of deadly radiation. I hoped he'd closed the port shields tight. The tug auxiliary engines hummed. The high-pitched whine of gravity-adjustment coils impinged upon my ears. Used to Captain Stabb's rough handling, I had expected to stagger but I didn't even feel a change in weight. The tug handled itself very well. I hoped its robotbrain wouldn't suddenly go crazy.

I stared anxiously at the viewscreen. It made me a little dizzy to watch it. It was scanning in a sphere: The Earth was there and then the moon and then black space and then the sun.

We certainly were going up very fast. The moon turned yellow-yellow. The Earth began to look like a huge liquid bubble, blue-green except where continents were red-brown.

"Where are we going?" I said fearfully.

Heller was setting up an instrument. He had it hooked to an outside scanner.

"Are you looking for the assassin pilots?" I said.

"This is a gamma-ray-sensitive electron telescope," said Heller. "I'm searching for a primordial black hole. There may be quite a few in this system close by."

"The assassin pilots!" I said. "That's your job," said Heller. "I'm busy."

Believe me, I fixed my eyes on that spherical scanner like I was hypnotized.

Time passed.

Suddenly a gong went. It scared me half out of my wits. We were through the magnetosphere. That was a relief, anyway: I wouldn't be sterilized or burned to a crisp.

I pinned my gaze on the scanner. Those assassin ships could catch us easily enough while we were on auxiliaries. I wished we were on the big time-converter Will-be Was engines. No, I didn't– they blew up sometimes!

Heller was busy with the gamma-ray telescope.

My own eyes were wearing out, anxiously watching the scanner. Earth swam like a liquid bubble. I could see no speck in that expanse which would identify the position of the assassin in his deadly ship.

Abruptly a voice spoke. I could not credit my senses. There were only two of us and the cat in the ship. Heller wasn't talking. I wasn't talking. Was the cat talking?

I mean to tell you, it was pretty rattling.

The voice came from nowhere.

Now that I could collect my suddenly dispersed wits, I realized it was speaking Voltarian.

"Sir, I am sorry to bother you, but in spherical sector X-19, Y-13, Z-91, an unidentified flying object has just altered course and speed and is parallelling ours, range 7,091.56 miles. The picture is on screen 31. If you will forgive my interruption of your doubtless far more important and intelligent considerations, I would take it as a favor if you were to look and give me your much more valuable opinion."

THE TUG WAS TALKING!

I flinched away from the side bulkhead. Was this thing made of flesh and blood?

Heller hadn't lifted his eye from the telescope image-relay cup. "Thank you," he said. "Give me your estimate of possibilities."

"Estimate one: Friendly and coming over for a chat. Not likely. Estimate two: Curious. On its way to investigate. Estimate three: Hostile. On its way to shoot at us. My inputs are blank on the subject of Fleet vessels in the area of Blito-P3, likewise Apparatus, likewise commercial. I am afraid, sir, that I am anemic from lack of input concerning space vessels in this system. Bis, when he loaded me, mentioned primitive space efforts but none of it compares here. I am sorry, sir."

"Thank you. Riffle your recognition bank."

"At once, sir. I must advise you, however, that the range is very great as yet, though closing. My image is very indistinct."

"It's probably absorbo-coat," said Heller, still studying his telescope.

"Oh, thank you, sir. That throws out 87.9 percent of the bank. I'll scan the rest."

I stared at my viewer. I couldn't see anything. Here I had been wearing my eyes out and the (bleeped) tug had been looking all the time! Not only that, it had spotted something I hadn't. I began to seethe with rage at it. One does not like to be beaten by a silly robot! It destroys one's sense of omnipotence!

"You have somebody on my flight deck," the tug said, "who is emanating hostility. Could I advise a word of caution, sir?"

"He's crazy" said Heller, still working with his telescope.

"Yes, sir. I will add that category to the classification."

I choked down my wrath.

"You might as well add him to your memory," said Heller. "He is Officer Soltan Gris, Secondary Executive of the Coordinated Information Apparatus, en route to trial for high crimes including the ordering of the murder of a Royal officer and the sabotage of a Grand Council-ordered mission."

"How dreadful," said the tug. "I have the Penal Code references of those crimes, sir, if you want the numbers."

"Just add his picture to your bank and sound an alarm if he -does anything destructive," said Heller.

I heard a click somewhere as though somebody had operated a camera. I had never felt so much a prisoner in my whole life. I was , in the guts of a robot. Would it digest me?

"On this other matter," said the tug, "my forty-third subbrain has been winking for attention. On the unidentified flying object, the range has closed to 6,789.078 miles. It is not responding to a demand for recognition. It is definitely estimate three: hostile."

"Classify," said Heller.

"Flying cannon. Such vessels are used by the Apparatus as assassin ships. In the reign of–"

"Thank you," said Heller. "What do you advise?"

"That I turn on the Will-be Was main drives and we depart from this locale, sir."

For once I could agree with this (bleeping) tug!

"No, I don't think that will be necessary," said Heller.

"Sir, may I remonstrate? Fleet Intelligence Officer Bis, when he loaded me, expressly stated that my first concern was your safety. In fact, sir, he said he would enter me as a failure on Fleet engineering rolls and would not rest until he had me and all models like me junked if you came to harm while aboard me. The range is 4,506.8 miles now and closing."

"What is his effective range of fire?"

"Against a battleship, about two miles. Against such a fragile thing as me, sir, about ten miles, with slight damage to be experienced at twenty."

"We've got lots of time," said Heller.

"Oh, dear," said the tug. "I wish to also call to your attention that my fifty-seventh subbrain just reported that it's 22.7 light-years to the nearest repair yard."

"There're facilities at the Earth base," said Heller.

"No Earth base is in my recordings, sir. I will amend the fifty-seventh subbrain instantly. By 'Earth' you mean Blito-P3, sir?"

"Yes."

"I think I've got one," said Heller. "Corky, record the coordinates I've just set on this telescope. Primordial black hole."

"Yes, sir. I have them. My twenty-third subbrain says that primordial black holes are notorious for sucking unwary vessels in, sir. Formed by the initial shock which, in theory, determined the pattern of this universe, they are suction whirlpools of magnetic force and distort time and space. The exudation of gamma rays can also be quite deadly. . . ."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"It's in Fleet Intelligence Officer Bis's loaded instructions, sir. To keep you safe."

"Where is the flying cannon now?"

"He has closed to 735.86 miles, sir. Could I, in all deference, point out that we have a primordial black hole in front of us that we are drawing closer to and an assassin ship behind us that is closing. My thirteenth subbrain has concluded this is not a safe situation, sir. Do you mind if I take over and we get the Hells out of here?"