"Then why not tell them how to disconnect the doo-gadget?" "Right!" Vinson snapped on the radio and called, "Vinson to commander of fleet. Vinson to--" "This is General Lloyd, Vinson. Go ahead." "Are you tracking us?" "The machine--wants you." "We know." "Well, we can do nothing to stop the pursuit." "Yes you can. In the--" A roar of static drowned Vinson's voice. It racketed against the eardrums and nothing could be heard but the raucous, rough-edged noise. Then it stopped. * * * * * "Look in the--" It was there again, as completely ruinous to communications as ever. Then the noise ceased and the machine spoke: "Narina Varada and Harry Vinson, you are directed to come to me. You have destroyed my control over your own plane. You are the only ones who really have the answer; therefore I must receive you indirectly instead of merely driving your plane this way." "No thanks." "But you _will_ come sooner or later: why not make it easy?" Vinson snorted. "Just what do you want?" "I wish to study you." "Thank you; we don't care to be studied." The machine's voice was cold. "You have little choice in the matter. Will you come--or shall I send a few guided missiles to herd you in?" "Neither--for we shall not come." There was a moment of silence. "The trouble is," said the machine with almost a trace of humor, "that Man made Machine _not_ in His own image. You will find the functional design somewhat more efficient, I guarantee." And then the radio contact was broken. Also, the radio was completely dead. Vinson nodded. "If any of that fore gang try maneuvering, they'll drop behind." Vinson looked out of the pilot's window at the first few planes of the oncoming fleet. Miles away, still, and in a long, long line, he estimated that he was able to avoid and outrun all but ten or twenty of the foremost. Plane for plane, the advantages were about equal; only in the advantage of position could Harry Vinson hope to win through. The line had come up in such a way as to permit him to run before them but at an unfavorable angle. It was a strange formation; the single, fleeing quarry running almost parallel to a line miles long, a line playing follow-the-leader. Single plane and line of pursuers were converging upon one another slowly. "They want us alive," gritted Vinson. "We're ahead of all but a dozen or so, I estimate." "Just run straight," said Narina. The machine must have known that. Yet, it had enough planes to test the will of Harry Vinson, though it must have known the strength of that, also. So as the planes converged, the fore plane, some thousand yards ahead of Vinson's flying boat, turned and crossed his course. It lagged until it was beside Vinson, and then it cut in close, almost wingtip to wingtip, and edging closer and closer as the seconds passed.