"What in the—!" Steel banked, twisted the plane into every contortion. But at every turn the glistening spheres stood before him, closing in like a net, relentlessly forcing him down.
Fifty feet above the snow, he realized he'd have to ram them. The plane was strong—maybe he could crash through.
Then, as if anticipating this very thought, the spheres moved in suddenly against the plane, pressed upon it from above, forced it down. It was pressed quickly down to the snow.
As it settled into the snow level with the cabin windows, the spheres slowly melted together to form a rough-hewn roof and walls. The plane was enclosed completely.
Steel's heart hammered. His breath fogged his helmet. He stared at the encircling wall, jerked the control lever helplessly. It was only then he remembered his microphone.
"Six-foot balls of ice!" he cried hoarsely. "Some kind of remote control! X-26.9-18.7!" He started giving the coordinates of his location.
"That's hardly worth while now...."
Steel shivered even in the electrosuit's warmth. Slowly, he turned around.
The walls and roof that imprisoned him joined, behind him, the side of one of the ruined buildings, a crumbling structure of weathered concrete. The ruin had a door. In the door, an oxygen helmet topping a snow-white electrosuit, stood a tall thin man. One gloved hand rested lightly upon the butt of a volt pistol holstered at his hip.
"Our little Trojan Horse—those balls of ice," the man continued, "have several interesting properties. They're also a very effective barrier against radio transmission." His voice was coming into the plane on the same radio frequency Steel had been trying to send on.