Was there any other way? Tom wracked his brains and—suddenly—he had it! Yes, there was another way. There was one place no one would think of looking for him if he could manage to keep out of range of the view screen lenses—the outer hull of the ship. If he could clamp himself to the hull, somehow, and manage to cling there during blast-off, he could follow Greg and Johnny right home.
He checked the fuse on the airlock once again to make certain it would work. Then he waited, hidden behind the little scout ship’s hull, until the orbit ship swung around into shadow. He checked his suit dials: oxygen for twenty-two hours, heater pack fully charged, soda ash only half saturated—it would do. Above him he could see the rear jets of the Ranger. He swung out onto the orbit ship’s hull, and began to crawl up toward the enemy ship.
It was slow going. Every pressure suit had magnetic boots and hand-pads to enable crewmen to go outside and make repairs on the hull of a ship in transit. Tom clung, and moved, and clung again, trying to reach the protecting hull of the Ranger before the orbit ship swung him around to the sun side again.
He couldn’t move fast enough. He saw the line of sunlight coming around the ship as it swung full into the sun. He froze, crouching motionless. If somebody on the Ranger spotted him now, all would be over. He was exposed like a lizard on a rock. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, as the ship spun ponderously around, carrying him into shadow again.
Nothing happened. He started to crawl upward again, reached up to grab the mooring cable, and swung himself across to the hull of the Ranger. The airlock hung open; he scuttled behind it, clinging to the hull in its shadow just as Greg and Johnny were herded across by the Jupiter Equilateral guards.
Then he waited. There was no sound, no sign of life. After a while the Ranger’s inner lock opened, and a group of men hurried across to the orbit ship. Probably a searching party, Tom thought. Soon the men came back, then returned to the orbit ship. After another minute, he felt the vibration of the Scavengers motors, and he knew that his snare had been triggered.
He saw the little ship break free and streak out in its curving trajectory. He saw the homing shells burst from the Ranger’s tubes. The Scavenger vanished from his range of vision, but moments later he saw the sudden flare of light reflected against the hull of the orbit ship, and he knew his plan had worked.
He waited then until the three searchers returned to the Ranger. Everything in the plan had worked to this point, but the ordeal lay ahead.
And at the end of it, he might really be a dead man.
Hours later, the last group of looters left the orbit ship, and the airlock to the Ranger clanged shut. Tom heard the sucking sound of the airtight seals, then silence. The orbit ship was empty, its insides gutted, its engines no longer operable. The Ranger hung like a long splinter of silver alongside her hull, poised and ready to move on.
Tom knew that the time had come. Very soon the blast-off and the acceleration would begin. He had a few moments to find a position of safety, no more.
Quickly, he began to scramble toward the rear of the Rangers hull, hugging the metal sides, moving sideways like a crab. Ahead, he knew, the view-screen lenses would be active; if one of them picked him up, it would be quite a jolt to the men inside the ship, and it would be the end of his free ride.
But the major peril was the blast-off. Once the engines cut off, the ship would be in free-fall. Then he could cling easily to the hull, walk all over it if he chose, with the aid of his boots and hand-pads. But unless he found a way to anchor himself firmly to the hull during blast-off, he could be flung off like a pebble. He would never be seen if that happened. Either the jet would catch him, or he would be left hanging in space, with nothing to do but wait for his oxygen supply to be exhausted, and the end would come swiftly then.
He heard a whirring sound and saw the magnetic mooring cables jerk. The ship was preparing for blast-off. Automatic motors were drawing the cable and grappling plates into the hull. Moving quickly, Tom reached the rear cable. Here was his anchor, something to hold him tight to the hull! With one hand he loosened the web belt of his suit and looped it over a corner of the grappling plate as it pulled in to the hull.
The plate pulled tight against the belt. Each plate fit into a shallow excavation in the hull, fitting so snugly that the plates were all but invisible when they were in place. Tom felt himself pulled in tight as the plate gripped the belt against the metal, and the whirring of the motor stopped.
For an instant it looked like the answer. The belt was firmly wedged. He couldn’t possibly pull loose without ripping its nylon webbing. But a moment later the motor started to whir again. The plate pushed out from the hull a few inches, then started back, again pulling in the belt.
A good idea that just wouldn’t work. The automatic machinery on a space ship was built to perfection; nothing could be permitted to half-work. Tom realized what was happening. Unless the plate fit perfectly -in its place, the cable motor could not shut off, and presently an alarm signal would start flashing on the control panel.
He pulled the belt loose, reluctantly. He would have to count on his boots and his hand-pads alone.
He searched the rear hull, looking for some break in the polished metal that might serve as a toe hold. To the rear the fins flared out, supported by heavy struts. He made his way back, crouching close to the hull, and straddled one of the struts. He jammed his magnetic boots down against the hull, and wrapped his arms around the strut with all his strength.
Clinging there, he waited.
It wasn’t a good position. The metal of the strut was polished and slick, but it was better than trying to cling to the open hull. He tensed now, not daring to relax for fear that the blast-off acceleration would slam him when he was unprepared.
Deep in the ship, the engines began to rumble. He felt it rather than heard it, a lowrpitched vibration that grew stronger and stronger. The Ranger would not need a great thrust to move away from the orbit ship, but if they were in a hurry, they might start out at nearly Mars-escape.
The jets flared, and something slammed him down against the fin strut. The Ranger moved out, its engines roaring, accelerating hard. Tom felt as though he had been hit by a ton of rock. The strut seemed to press in against his chest; he could not breath. His hands were sliding, and he felt the pull on his boots. He tightened his grip desperately. This was it. He had to hang on, had to hang on. . . .
He saw his boot on the hull surface, sliding slowly, creeping back and stretching his leg. Suddenly it broke loose; he lurched to one side, and the other boot began sliding. The ache in his arms was terrible, as though some malignant giant were tearing at him, trying to wrench him loose as he fought for his hold.
There was one black instant when he felt he could not hold on another second. He could see the blue flame of the jet streaming behind him and the cold blackness of space beyond that. It had been a fool’s idea, he thought in despair, a million-to-one shot that he had taken, and lost. . . .
And then the pressure stopped. His boots clanged down on the hull, and he almost lost his hand-grip. He stretched an arm, shook himself, took a great painful breath, and clung to the strut, almost sobbing, hardly daring to move.
The ordeal was over. Somewhere, far ahead, an orbit ship was waiting for the Ranger to return. He would have to be ready for the braking thrust and the side-maneuvering thrusts, but he would manage to hold on. Crouching against the fin, he would be invisible to viewers on the orbit ship, and who would be looking for a man clinging to the outside of a scout ship?