"Until her comptometers break down, until her drive is exhausted, until she makes a mistake. Until eternity."
"Sir," Kramer broke in. "Three minutes since pick-up. Her trajectory's whacky. She's sort of side-slipping in, but at the speed she's making, she's going to miss Barrier just by the width of her skin. She'll tangent off sure." Kramer thrust a hastily prepared three dimensional plot-check forward.
"To bring her in we've got to go out and pick her up, sir," Cragin said.
"Grimes!"
"Here, sir." Grimes came up with a similar plot-check, described on a regulation ship's form. The senior Patrol officer compared the two, the flight plan and the running trajectory laid out by Kramer, and Cragin's teeth glinted through his lips as they went slack in amazement.
"God, sir, that's impossible. It ends at the square of light-speed!"
"Fowler Griffin is—was—one of Earth's topmost scientists. His work is beyond question, Mister Cragin. More so, perhaps, than that of any other. Your irreverence is out of order."
"Unintentional of course, sir."
"Plot the difference between Griffin's planned return and the trajectory Kramer just tracked. Drive-room!"
The sleek Patrol ship quivered with the added thrust of her auxiliaries; her needle-tip nose swung a half-minute to her own three-quarter starboard axis.