"Another four hours to shift, Admiral," General Drew, the battle commander acting as co-pilot aboard the racing interceptor said. "That's if we don't blow our linings before then."
"Bandit still holding position?" The admiral's voice was a grate as of metal against metal.
Drew spoke into his lip mike, frowned at the reply. "Yes, sir, Malthusa says he's still stationary. Whether his locus is identical with the LN beacon's fix or not, he isn't sure at that range."
"He could be standing by off-planet, looking over the ground," the admiral muttered half to himself.
"Not likely, Admiral. He knows we're on his tail."
"I know it's not likely, damn it!" the admiral snarled. "But if he isn't, we haven't got a chance . . ."
"I suppose the Djann conception of honor requires these beggars to demolish the beacon and hunt down the station personnel, even if it means letting us overhaul them," Drew said. "A piece of damn foolishness on their part, but fortunate for us."
"Fortunate, General? I take it you mean for yourself and me, not the poor devil that's down there alone with them."
"Just the one man? Well, we'll get off more cheaply than I imagined then." The general glanced sideways at the admiral, intent over the controls. "After all, he's Navy. This is his job, what he signed on for."
"Kick that converter again, General," Admiral Carnaby said between his teeth. "Right now you can earn your pay by squeezing another quarterlight out of this bucket."