The tracker, a sensitive electronic instrument projecting from the shell, would read them—their concentration, velocity, and direction. From that he could project the position and trajectory of the junk ship.
Or maybe he could see it already.
He flicked on the video eyes of the ship and waited for the screen to light up. There was a ship ahead.
The fear bit into him like acid. As quickly, it vanished. The stern outline of the ship ahead was not that of a freighter. It was a small job. Private, in the LR class—probably an LR65.
An absurd thought flashed into his mind. It couldn't be. Stella Gamble could have put a line on him, but she would have had to wait until he went into full acceleration before she could have calculated his direction.
But she would have blacked out trying to follow him. No girl and few men could have kept up with him. None could have gotten ahead of him into that position.
He turned on the radio and set it at commercial communication. He waited impatiently until the warm-up tube went off.
"Look astern and identify yourself," he said sharply.
"Hello, Larry," a triumphantly impudent and very familiar voice purred from the loudspeaker. "My ship is the LR65, Hell Bat."