It was Prochaska's turn to sweat. The job of taking it over was his. He bent over his instruments, ears tuned to the communicator fingers nervous on the drone controls. The drone hurtled toward them at a frightening speed. Crag kept his fingers on the steering controls just in case, his mind following the Chief's hands. They began moving more certainly. Prochaska tossed his head impatiently, bending lower over the instrument console. Crag strained against his harnessing to see out of the side port. The drone was visible now, a silver shaft growing larger with appalling rapidity. A thin skein of vapor trailed from its trail, fluffing into nothingness. _If angle of closure remains constant, you're on collision course._ The words from the Flying Safety Manual popped into his mind. He studied the drone. Angle of closure was constant! Crag hesitated. Even a touch on the steering rockets could be bad. Very bad. The slightest change in course at their present speed would impose tremendous g forces on their bodies, perhaps greater than they could stand. He looked at the Chief and licked his lips. The man was intent on his instruments, seemingly lost to the world. His fingers had ceased all random movement. Every motion had precise meaning. He was hooked onto Drone Able's steering rockets now, manipulating the controls with extreme precision. He was a concert pianist playing the strident music of space, an overture written in metal and flaming gas. Tiny corrections occurred in the Drone's flight path. "Got her lined up," Prochaska announced without moving his eyes from the scope. He gradually narrowed the distance between the rockets until they were hurtling through space on parallel courses scant miles apart. He gave a final check and looked at Crag. They simultaneously emitted big sighs. "Had me worried for a moment," Crag confessed. "Me, too." The Chief looked out of the side port "Man, it looks like a battle wagon." Crag squinted through the port. Drone Able was a silver bullet in space, a twin of the Aztec except in color. A drone with view ports. He smiled thoughtfully. Every exterior of the drone had been planned to make it appear like a manned vehicle. Gotch was the architect of that bit of deception, he thought. The Colonel hadn't missed a bet. He looked at the earth. It was a behemoth in space; a huge curved surface falling away in all directions; a mosaic of grays punctuated by swaths of blue-green tints and splotches of white where fleecy clouds rode the top of the troposphere. His momentary elation vanished, replaced by an odd depression. The world was far away, retreating into the cosmic mists. The aftermath, he thought. A chill presentiment crept into his mind--a premonition of impending disaster. CHAPTER 4