Farradyne watched Carolyn uncaringly as she fought herself out of her crumpled position and succeeded in flopping over on her back. She spread-eagled on the floor, and her chest labored a bit with the effort.
"Forget it—Charles—" she said with some difficulty. "You can't—run away from a ship—that can go—faster than light."
"I can try."
"You can't—win."
The radio speaker came alive: "Surrender, Farradyne! Stop and submit or we fire!"
Farradyne fought the controls so that the ship slued sidewise, putting another vector in its course. He twirled the volume knob to zero on the radio with a violent twist of his wrist.
"They're your friends, but they don't mind killing you," he sneered.
"I'm not—afraid to—die."
"I am," grunted Farradyne. "I have some dope that I don't want to die without telling."
His hands danced on the levers and the Lancaster turned end for end and sped back at the huge spacecraft almost on a sideswiping course. Out here intrinsic velocity meant nothing; the only thing that counted was the Lancaster's velocity with respect to the velocity of the enemy spacecraft. He had the advantage of surprise. He could go where he pleased and the other pilot must follow him; and since Farradyne's changes of pace and course would come without warning, each switch would take a few fractions of a second to follow. On land a few fractions of a second mean nothing; in space they mean miles. On land a quartering flight meant closing of the range; in space where the pursuit could not dig a heel into the ground, quartering flight meant adding another vector to the course.