strut with all his
strength.

Clinging there, he waited.

It wasn't a good position. The metal of the strut was polished and
slick, but it was better than trying to cling to the open hull. He
tensed now, not daring to relax for fear that the blastoff accelleration
would slam him when he was unprepared.

Deep in the ship, the engines began to rumble. He felt it rather
than heard it, a low-pitched vibration that grew stronger and stronger.
The Ranger would not need a great thrust to move away from the
orbit-ship ... but if they were in a hurry, they might start out at
nearly Mars-escape....

The jets flared, and something slammed him down against the fin strut.
The Ranger moved out, its engines roaring, accellerating hard. Tom felt
as though he had been hit by a ton of rock. The strut seemed to press in
against his chest; he could not breathe. His hands were sliding, and he
felt the pull on his boots. He tightened his grip desperately. This was
it. He had to hang on, _had_ to hang on....

He saw his boot on the hull surface, sliding slowly, creeping back and
stretching his leg, suddenly it broke loose; he lurched to one side, and
the other boot began sliding. There was a terrible ache in his arms, as
though some malignant giant were tearing at him, trying to wrench him
loose as he fought for his hold.

There was one black instant when he knew he could not hold on another
second. He could see the blue flame of the jet streaming behind him, the
cold blackness of space beyond that. It had been a fool's idea, he
thought in despair, a million-to-one shot that he had taken, and
lost....

And then the pressure stopped. His boots clanged down on the hull, and
he almost lost his hand-grip. He stretched an arm, shook himself, took a
great painful breath, and then clung to the strut, almost sobbing,
hardly daring to move.

The ordeal was over. Somewhere, far ahead, an orbit-ship was waiting for
the Ranger to return. He would have to be ready for the braking thrust
and the side-maneuvering thrusts, but he would manage to hold on.
Crouching against the fin, he would be invisible to viewers on the
orbit-ship ... and who would be looking for a man clinging to the
outside of a scout-ship?

Tom sighed, and waited. Jupiter Equilateral would have its prisoners,
all right. He wished now that he had not discarded the stunner, but
those extra pounds might have made the difference between life and death
during the blastoff. And at