"I'm going to shut you off and go on manual," said Heller.

"Oh, dear. But of course I realize that my piloting skill can never compare with yours. However, going up against a flying cannon with an unarmored, unarmed tug is . . ."

Heller threw a switch. The voice stopped. "Robots are too cautious," he said.

"The tug is right!" I wailed. "We'll be blown right out of space!"

"Where is this guy?" said Heller. He was leaning toward screen 31. He was buckling himself into the planetary-pilot seat, used for local maneuvering.

I looked at my chains around the pipe. I remembered what Heller had told me the very first time I had ridden in this tug. The maneuverability of such a ship was so sudden one could easily snap his neck.

"What about me?" I wailed. "If you go whipping this thing around you could smash me to pulp!"

"Good riddance," said Heller. "Sit down on the floor and hold on."

Just before he fastened his last strap, he reached up and threw the shields off the pilot viewports. A blast of savage sunlight almost blinded me.

I heard the click of Heller's last strap fastener.

The tug suddenly spun about and faced the other way.

My light-dazzled eyes could make out nothing as I looked anxiously toward the globe of Earth.

There was a sudden surge.

HELLER WAS GOING BACK TO MEET THE ASSASSBNF SHIP!

We didn't even have a gun!

Yes, indeed, he had turned suicidal!

Heller sent Tug One hurtling through space.

"You're going to get us killed!" I screamed. Frantically, I looked to see if there was some way I could get the shackles off the pipe and free my wrists.

He was closing with the flying cannon at a dreadful rate. I could see the speck now, by naked eyeball, through the pilot ports. It was growing in size!

It packed an enormous gun, capable of smashing a battleship's plate to old tin. What would it do to this small space tug?

Heller began to jink. Hands rapid on the tug's local-maneuvering controls, he was sending it up and down and side to side erratically. He was changing speeds from a hundred thousand miles an hour-down to fifty and back!

The gravity coils that made it possible to ride this thing were not as fast as Heller's hands. There was a lag each time and even if it was only a split second, it was enough to shake me to bits!

The cat was holding on to the star-pilot seat with every claw. Even its skin looseness was apparent in these sudden surges and slows.

"Yow!" said the cat.

"Don't be concerned," Heller said. "This tug is all engines and made to do this sort of thing. That flying cannon has to pivot his whole ship to aim and shoot. I think we'll be too quick for him."

"You THINK?" I cried. "Oh, Goddess of the Seventh Sphere, prepare to take me to your breast and hold me there in peace."

"Shut up!" said Heller. "If you're going to pray, the Devils are more likely to listen to–"

WHAM!

The first shot from the assassin ship exploded to our right, a blossom of green fire, blinding bright against the ink of space. It whipped behind us.

A readout screen said the lethal vessel was only fifteen miles away.

WHAM!

The tug jarred as a shot above us barely missed.

The assassin pilot was eight miles ahead.

WHAM!

Something seemed to pound against our hull below.

The assassin was two miles below.

The tug stood on its nose. Made to push and tow enormous weights, unfettered it was like a chip in a hurricane under Heller's hands.

WHAM!

The shot was short by five hundred yards. We flashed through the blossom.

I felt like I was caught in a pinwheel. Our motions were far beyond what gravity coils could handle.

Black space.

The sun gone by in a streak.

A sudden glimpse of the moon.

"YOW!" said the cat, holding on.

Oh, horned Devils of the Sixteenth Hell, please receive me and don't let me move again for an eternity! Anything I had ever done did not deserve being in the hands of a Voltar Fleet combat engineer bent on suicide!

The tug seemed to be skidding sideways.

Abruptly the slew stopped.

STRAIGHT IN FRONT OF US, NOT TEN YARDS AWAY, WAS THE PORT SIDE OF THE FLYING CANNON!

Heller hit a throttle.

CRUNCH! '

The butting bow of the tug, its wide arms made to push ships, thudded straight up against the flying cannon's hull!

I stared in horror through the viewport.

The flight deck of the assassin ship was not ten feet in front of are viewports!

The tug's nose was hard against the vessel.

There was a rending grind of metal as the killer ship tried to accelerate away!

The assassin pilot was right there, red gloves and all! He was glaring into our very viewports!

He shook his fist!

His copilot fired the gun to give them recoil to try to shake loose.

The tug was pressing against the other vessel's side, holding tight as a leech.

Heller's hand slammed against the throttles.

The assassin pilot's brutal face went white as chalk.

He was being thrust sideways.

He couldn't get free.

Heller's hand reached over for the Will-be Was main drives. He pushed.

The tug leaped ahead!

A terrible sound of rending metal transmitted through our hull.

The inertia of the flying cannon's weight fought against the tug's acceleration.

SCREEECH! BONG!

The assassin ship disintegrated.

Heller flipped the tug upside down.

Through the viewport I could see the squashed hull, shedding fragments.

Two pale pink mists were all that was left of the assassin pilots, exploded by the vacuum of space.

"You all right?" said Heller. I thought he was talking to me. I started to answer and then realized that his question was aimed at the cat.

"Yow," said the cat.

"I'm sorry," said Heller. "But you'll just have to get used to it now that you are a member of the Voltar Fleet."

were drifting in black space amidst the wreckage of the assassin ship. The Earth was a liquid ball below, fifty thousand miles away.

Heller threw on the robot's switch. "Check any hull damage, Corky."

"You should not have shut off my voice. I could have given you some pointers."

I looked around. I wasn't able to tell where the tug's voice was coming from. It was son of spooky.

"Longitudinal seams entirely sundered, engines cracked, ammunition magazine–"

"Corky," said Heller, "NOT the flying cannon. Check your own damage."

"Oh, I am sorry, sir. The question was inadequately specific– meaning no criticism, sir. Please advise if you wish the data verbal or in printout form on your desk in the aft salon."

"Heavens," said Heller, "is it that extensive?"

"I am not used to working with you yet, sir. Your wish is necessary on certain matters. A question of substantive preference. My input expressly states that I am to make you happy if at all possible. Could I have an answer, please? My twenty-second subbrain is on hold."

"Verbal and printout," said Heller. "But let me have the data, please."

"There are two small scratches on the butting arms, sir. One is 3.4 inches long, 1/16 of an inch wide. The other is 2.7 inches long and 1/8 of an inch wide. Yard cost will be 2.7 credits."

"Is that all?"

"Well, yes, sir, but 'Is that all?' is inadequately descriptive. The absorbo-coat is breached and enemy detection gear will reflect from it. I suggest that this matter be handled at the earliest opportunity so that I can execute my actual purpose of preserving you from harm."

"You're a chatterbox," said Heller.

"Chatterbox ... chatterbox ... chatterbox ... No, sir. I don't have any such part, sir, and all gears are firm. I am a Mark XIII humanoid-approximation robot manufactured in–"