omponent particle of an opaque, three-dimensional solid, but without
being able to explain to anyone how his sense of perception works. It
just _is_, that's all.

Anyway, by virtue of whatever sense or ability it is which makes a
mathematical prodigy what he is, Cloud knew that in exactly eight and
three-tenths seconds from that observed instant the activity of the
vortex would be slightly--but not too far--under the coefficient of his
heaviest bomb. Another flick of his mental trigger and he knew the exact
velocity he would require. His hand swept over the studs, his right foot
tramped down, hard, upon the firing lever; and, even as the quivering
flitter shot forward under eight Tellurian gravities of acceleration, he
knew to the thousandth of a second how long he would have to hold that
acceleration to attain that velocity. While not really long--in
seconds--it was much too long for comfort. It took him much closer to
the vortex than he wanted to be; in fact, it took him right out over the
crater itself.

But he stuck to the calculated course, and at the precisely correct
instant he cut his drive and released his largest bomb. Then, so rapidly
that it was one blur of speed, he again kicked on his eight G's of drive
and started to whirl around as only a speedster or a flitter can whirl.
Practically unconscious from the terrific resultant of the linear and
angular accelerations, he ejected the two smaller bombs. He did not care
particularly where they lit, just so they didn't light in the crater or
near the observatory, and he had already made certain of that. Then,
without waiting even to finish the whirl or to straighten her out in
level flight, Cloud's still-flying hand darted toward the switch whose
closing would energize the Bergenholm and make the flitter inertialess.

Too late. Hell was out for noon, with the little speedster still inert.
Cloud had moved fast, too; trained mind and trained body had been
working at top speed and in perfect coordination. There just simply
hadn't been enough time. If he could have got what he wanted, ten full
seconds, or even nine, he could have made it, but....

* * * * *

In spite of what happened, Cloud defended his action, then and
thereafter. Damnitall, he _had_ to take the eight-point-three second
reading! Another tenth of a second and his bomb wouldn't have fitted--he
didn't have the five percent leeway he wanted, remember. And no, he
could