ter the outline
was definitely recognizable as a rocket. He found himself drifting
across its course near the bow. It was hard to estimate the distance,
but he guessed it to be something like a hundred yards.

_Drifting?_ he asked himself. _It should be going past me like a
shooting star! Unless they took exactly the same curve from Centauri
VII--_

Then he could read the numbers he feared to see. AC7-4-525. His own
ship.

He had gone out of the air lock mainly on a puff of air, with some
fumbling help from Peters. That had been enough to send him out of
sight of the ship--in space, not necessarily very far--and now he was
back, after two hours.

_A long, flat orbit in relation to the ship_, he told himself,
remembering in time to avoid speaking aloud that Braigh might be at
the ship's radio, _but actually weaving back and forth across the
rocket's course, just nipping it at this end_.

He edged a hand inside the suit again and turned off his radio. If he
found an answer, it would be fatal to be overheard mumbling about it.

* * * * *

The ship now seemed to be rushing at him, and Tremont deduced that his
orbital speed had increased as he approached the focus represented by
the _Annabel_. He would doubtless pass near the air lock at about his
expulsion speed.

"Here's the chance!" he exulted. "A little air let out to slow down ... or
even just to veer close enough to lay hands on something! You launched me,
Peters, but you didn't lose me."

Getting through the airlock should be easy enough. He might be well up
the shaft before the others emerged from the control room. In fact,
unless Peters were on watch, the air lock operating signal might flash
unnoticed on the board.

"And I'll be cracking skulls before they know what's up!" he growled.

It struck him with a flash of ironic amusement that he had not felt
half so much hate when believing himself doomed. After two hours of
sweating out his helplessness, he had discovered a lively resentment
of the vicious callousness with which he had been jettisoned.

He was only about twenty-five yards away now, seemingly circling the
ship. Peering closer, he saw that actually he was sweeping in toward
it.

_Now, be ready with the air tank valve, just in case!_ he warned
himself.

The great fins loomed to his right; the hull blotted most of the sky
from his view. It looked as if he would curve down to a spot beside
the same air lock