_This is the worst. These three minutes are the worst._ One hundred ninety-two eternal seconds of waiting, of deathly silence and deathly calm, feeling and hearing nothing but the slow pounding of their own heartbeats. Each time he got back, it faded away, and all he remembered was the excitement. But each time he went through it, it was worse. Just standing and waiting in the silence, praying they weren't spotted--staring at the unmoving firmament and knowing he was a projectile hurtling two miles each second straight at a clump of metal and flesh that was the enemy. Knowing the odds were twenty to one against their scoring a kill ... unless they ran into him. * * * * * At eighty-five seconds, he corrected slightly to center the pip. The momentary hiss of the rockets was a relief. He heard the muffled yammering as Guns fired a short burst from the .30's standing out of their compartments around the sides of the ship. They were practically recoilless, but the burst drifted him forward against the cradle harness. And suddenly the waiting was over. The ship filled with vibration as Guns opened up. _Twenty-five seconds to target._ His eyes flicked from the sightscreen to the sky ahead, looking for the telltale flare of rockets--ready to follow like a ferret. _There he is!_ At eighteen miles from target, a tiny blue light flickered ahead. He forgot everything but the sightscreen, concentrating on keeping the pip dead center. The guns hammered on. It seemed they'd been firing for centuries. At ten-mile range, the combat radar kicked the automatics in, turning the ship ninety degrees to her course in one and a half seconds. He heard the lee side firing cut out, as Garrity hung on with two, then three guns. He held it as long as he could. Closer than he ever had before. At four miles he poured 12 G's for two seconds. They missed ramming by something around a hundred yards. The enemy ship flashed across his tail in a fraction of a second, already turned around and heading up its own track, yet it seemed to Paul he could make out every detail--the bright red star, even the tortured face of the pilot. Was there something lopsided in the shape of that rocket plume, or was he just imagining it in the blur of their passing? And did he hear a _ping_ just at that instant, feel the ship vibrate for a second? He continued the turn in the direction the automatics had started, bringing his nose around to watch the enemy's track. And as the shape of the plume told him the other ship was still heading back toward Earth, he brought the throttle back up to 12 G's, trying to overcome the lead his pass had given away. Guns spoke quietly to Johnson. "Let me know when we kill his RV. Ah may get another shot at him." And Johnny answered, hurt, "What do you think I'm doing down here--reading one of your magazines?"