"You stinking opportunist," snarled Downing.
"Mad?"
"That was—"
"One step ahead of you."
"You haven't won—"
"Only succeeded. Now we can fight this out for good. Really want to play, Stellor?"
"I'll run you right into that hole in the meteor," snarled Downing.
The two tiny ships approached on a converging course. Collision course, it was, and somewhere far ahead there was the meteor again. Downing was on the spaceward side, and edging sidewise into Lane's course. Lane was pinched between meteor and Downing; edging outward into Stellor's course and calculated to miss the meteor by several yards—if he did not give.
At fifty miles per second they rocketed forward, approaching one another, and telling each other what was going to happen next.