His face was the color of a 'dobe hut.
"I heard it," he croaked feebly, and stared at Biggs with lacklustre eyes. "Trouble, trouble; nothin' but trouble! Lanse, is there anything we can do to speed up a little?"
Biggs shook his head. "No," he groaned. "We're spinning the V-I unit almost at maximum acceleration now—185,000 plus. If we boost it any higher we're taking chances. We may exceed the limiting velocity of light and lose ourselves in the negative universe like we did once before." A sudden anger disturbed his usual calm complacency. "If we lose this race," he stormed, "the Company has nobody to blame but itself! They merchandised the V-I unit and made it available to every ship in space. Still—we must beat the C.C. to Iapetus, even if we have to take chances."
He turned to me suddenly. "Sparks, call Jenkins again. See if you can get an exact locus on the Gemini."
I did so. A few minutes later Biggs was seated at my plot table, anxiously scanning the course trajectories of both their ship and ours, reeling off involved and typically Biggsian mathematics that would have warped the gears of a calculating machine. The creases on his brow etched deeper as his columns of figures grew longer. Finally he stopped scribbling, lifted his head.
"Well?" asked the Old Man with bated breath. "What's the answer, son?"
"It's close," Biggs told us. "Perilously close. As near as I can figure, it's a nip and tuck race. They started later than we did, but their point of departure was nearer our mutual goal. From the viewpoint of distance alone, they should drop gravs on Iapetus one hour before we do."
Hanson groaned. "Licked again!"
"No," said Biggs. "Not quite. There's one thing which may save us. Iapetus' diurnal revolution. It's not simply a matter of reaching the satellite. They must actually beat us to the mining city. If their calculators have figured our position as we have figured theirs, they may be overconfident and think they've licked us just because they have an hour's advantage. And—this is risky, Cap, but—"