e him communications with the Shed direct, and the pushpots were
balanced in groups, which cost efficiency but helped on control. He
would have, moreover, to handle his own steering rockets during
acceleration and when he could--and dared--he should supervise the
others. Because each of the other three had two drone-ships to guide.
True, they had only to keep their drones in formation, but Joe had to
navigate for all. The four of them had been assigned this flight because
of its importance. They happened to be the only crew alive who had ever
flown a space ship designed for maneuvering, and their experience
consisted of a single trip.

The jet stream was higher this time than on that other journey now two
months past. They blundered into it at 36,000 feet. Joe's headphones
buzzed tinnily. Radar from the ground told him his rate-of-rise, his
ground speed, his orbital speed, and added comments on the handling of
the drones.

The last was not a precision job. On the way up Joe protested,
"Somebody's ship--Number Four--is lagging! Snap it up!"

Mike said crisply, "Got it, Joe. Coming up!"

"The Shed says three separate ships are getting out of formation. And we
need due east pointing. Check it."

The Chief muttered, "Something whacky here ... come round, you! Okay,
Joe."

Joe had no time for reflection. He was in charge of the clumsiest
operation ever designed for an exact result. The squadron went wallowing
toward the sky. The noise was horrible. A tinny voice in his headphones:

"_You are at 65,000 feet. Your rate-of-climb curve is flattening. You
should fire your jatos when practical. You have some leeway in rocket
power._"

Joe spoke into the extraordinary maze of noise waves and pressure
systems in the air of the cabin.

"We should blast. I'm throwing in the series circuit for jatos. Try to
line up. We want the drones above us and with a spread, remember! Go to
it!"

He watched his direction indicator and the small graphic indicators
telling of the drones. The sky outside the ports was dark purple. The
launching cage responded sluggishly. Its open end came around toward the
east. It wobbled and wavered. It touched the due-east point. Joe stabbed
the firing-button.

Nothing happened. He hadn't expected it. The seven ships had to keep in
formation. They had to start off on one course--with a slight spread as
a safety measure--and at one time. So the firing-circuits were keyed to
relays in series. Only when