"They say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was much nearer. So was the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for an eye-witness report, he thought sourly. Probably got an automatic camera so Gotch can watch the show. He looked quizzically at Prochaska. The Chief wore a frozen mask. He got back on the communicator and repeated his request. When he finished, there was a dead silence in the void. The Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully at Prochaska. Last time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited to leave the Air Force. But Gotch had taken him despite that. He glanced over his shoulder trying to formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back in his seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog, he thought. He doesn't know what he's in for. He twisted his head further. Nagel watched him with a narrow look. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind and turned back to the analog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across the grid. The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid was dropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too. Much nearer. Prochaska watched the scene on his radarscope. "She's coming fast," he murmured. His face had paled. "Too fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine. Gotch came on immediately. Crag said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept. It's the only chance." "Commander, I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy, biting. "Ground has no control over this situation," Crag snapped angrily. "I said ground control, Commander. That's final." "I'm using Drone Able." "Commander Crag, you'll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Gotch raged. "Don't move that Drone." For a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just now he'd like to be guaranteed the chance to clear the heads at Alpine Base. It sounded good--real good. There was another burst of static. Pickering's voice came in--louder, clearer, a snap through the ether. "Don't sacrifice the drone, Commander!" "Do you know a better way?" Pickering's voice dropped to a laconic drawl. "Reckon so." Crag glanced at the analog and gave a visible start. The satelloid was lower, moving in faster along a course which would take it obliquely through the space path being traversed by the Aztec. If there was such a thing as a wake in space, that's where the satelloid would chop through, cutting down toward the intercept. He's using his power, he thought, the scant amount of fuel he would need for landing. But if he used it up.... He slashed the thought off and swung to the communicator. "Step One to S-two ... Step One to S-two ..." "S-two." Pickering came in immediately. Crag barked, "You can't--" "That's my job," Pickering cut in. "You gotta get that bucket to the moon." Crag looked thoughtfully at the communicator. "Okay," he said finally. "Thanks, fellow." "Don't mention it. The Air Force is always ready to serve," Pickering said. "Adios." He cut off.