Nathan watched the black ship for hours while Firebird guided the Corsair. Steadily the strange vessel gained on them.
"We could outrun him easily," said Firebird, "if it weren't for that bad motor. Do you know how to handle light cruiser lances?"
"My father never carried a gun on his ship in his life."
"I remember," said Firebird. "How I used to argue with him. He said he wouldn't risk being caught by the police in an armed vessel, so he never came aboard the Corsair."
"Perhaps a wiser man than his son," said Nathan.
He told himself he wanted no part of this. He was an engineer, not a buccaneer. Yet as the black vessel approached he felt the thrill of its challenge. The challenge of combat in the impersonal depths of space.
His father had felt that challenge—the challenge of men and of space itself, and he had met it with his own bare hands. It was impossible for Nathan not to feel it.
They kept their steady pace at an acceleration something more than fifteen G's. Firebird gave Nathan brief instructions in the operation of the weapons and controls.
A viewing screen provided Nathan with sights. Its scale automatically corrected for the relative motions of the two vessels.
Abruptly, and without warning, the Black Warrior fired. The Corsair's defensive screens caught the blast with an absorption of energy that made the dissipators whine and grow incandescent.