e on a course parallel with the Fleury.

A blinding gusher of raw energy exploded--a cone of blistering,
scintillating force that streaked through space between himself and the
disabled ship. The aiming was perfect. Had he not swerved off when he
did, had he stayed on his original course, he would have been in the
center of the lance of hell-power.

As he drifted shakily into the hatch, the Queen wasn't even a dot
against the trellis of star traces. But, while he looked, a miniature
lance of flame burst in the general direction in which Altman's vessel
had gone--scores of miles away. He was maneuvering a standard turn to
approach again, Brad realized.

If he repeated the performance against the hull of the Fleury, he would
shake things up considerably, but at least the alloys of the plates
could stand the heat--possibly the thrust too ... but not for long.

* * * * *

Invigorating effects of hot coffee flowed through Brad as he sat
strapped in the pilot's seat and allowed himself the luxury of a
cigarette.

But his eyes were fastened on the screen. The Cluster Queen was drawing
up to the last orbiting crate. He watched the large blip and the dot
become one.

Abruptly, there was motion in the direct-view port overhead. The Queen
and the crate drifted into view. He switched his gaze from the screen
and watched grapples clamp the crate like giant mandibles, drawing it
into the Queen.

His chest and abdomen hurt and he wanted to get out of the seat and
stretch, move around, do something. But that might be disastrous. If
Altman was going to play any more tricks with his tubes, he would be
ready to do it now, after the last box had been retrieved. And Brad
realized it wouldn't be healthy being shaken around inside an
erratically spinning compartment.

"That's the last one, Altman," he spoke dully into the mike.

"Say!" The irony was still in the other's voice. "Were you out there
when we blasted to avoid collision?"

Brad said nothing.

"Sorry if we warmed your tail," Altman continued. "But you should'a
stayed inside. Our instruments show you're getting close to
spillthrough. Ain't you gonna do anything about it?"

Brad snapped to alertness. Now he realized the origin of the pains in
his stomach and chest--the pin-prick sensations that seemed to be
spreading throughout his flesh. He glanced out the direct-view port.
Altman was right. The sky was no longer a grid of star streaks.