hey were a couple of dead ducks.

"Look out," Case said.

His big hands flung the pilot out of his seat. Case took over the
controls. A whoosh of fire swept past the cabin, missed them as Case
sent the ship into a dive.

"Break out the glider chutes," he called back over his shoulder.

Luckily, the pilot didn't try to argue. He was too scared. He snapped a
chute around his own shoulders, fought his way forward and got the other
one around Case. Another blast cut past the cabin, then another. The
rocket ship was using all guns now. They were over the Potomac, then
over a wooded area.

"We'll jump at a hundred feet," Case yelled.

A streak of flame caught the cab's right edge, and Case told himself
they'd be lucky to jump at all. The little craft was almost out of
control. His pretended spin was turning into the real thing. Keeping his
eyes glued on the plummeting altimeter, he got his left foot up and
kicked out the side window. A flash melted the dial and singed his
sleeve. One-fifty.

"Go!" Case barked.

The pilot's heels vanished out the window and Case banked sharply to the
right and flung himself out of the seat. Hard earth of a clearing looked
like it was going to smack him right in the face.

[Illustration: The chute billowed out as he hit the ground, and he
pulled hard at the cords to get his footing]

Then the small chute billowed and pulled out glider wings. Case pulled
cords and dropped leftward. The cab hit the ground to his right, the
rocket ship on its tail for a final blast. He saw that, and then got his
hands in front of him and hit the ground in a rolling fall.

* * * * *

The pilot was a still shape near him in the gloom. Case got out of the
chute and ran to him, slid expert hands over the man, and felt the messy
pulp that had once been a face. The pilot hadn't known how to fall
properly.

Case took a quick look upward. His trick hadn't worked. The rocket was
making a tight curve for a landing. Smart operators; they weren't taking
any chances. Case cursed them, whoever they were, even as he dug his
silver identification plate out of his pocket and slid it into the dead
pilot's flying jacket.

Then he ran. Maybe he'd fool them. Maybe he wouldn't. They'd probably
take a few minutes to think it over. He skipped around a bush and heard
voices and the pound of running feet behind him.

* * * * *

So Cranly was wrong. This wasn