Small lightning sheeted in front of their bow. A voice crackled in the communications disk. "Attention! This is an official air barricade. Proceed to Level Twelve to be cleared."
"Pretend to comply," the young man said. "Then, when you are six or eight levels below these patrol skimmers following us, make a run for it toward that cloud bank on the horizon."
"Very well," Stephen said. He had quickly weighed the gloomy possibilities, and decided that his best chance for survival lay in instant compliance with this madman's wishes, however outrageous they might seem.
He nosed down, silently flitting past brightly painted fueling blimp platforms and directional floats with their winking beacons. To the east, the City lay, with its waffle-like subdivisions, its height-foreshortened skyscrapers, and its vast Port, where space rockets winked upward every few minutes.
"If you were only on one of those!" Stephen said feelingly.
His abductor smiled—a rather malicious smile. "Who wants to go to Mars?" he said. "Earth is such a fascinating place—why leave it? After all, only here, upon this exquisitely green, clean sphere of ours can the full richness of man's endeavors be enjoyed. And you would have me abandon it all!"
"I was only thinking aloud," Stephen said.
The smile withered. "Mind your altitude," the young man said. "And try no tricks."
Twenty seconds had passed. Thirty-five....
"Now."