Мюррей Лейнстер - Space Tug

Then the war rockets started up. There were eight of them. They came out to do murder at ten gravities acceleration.

But even at ten gravities' drive it takes time to travel 4,000 miles. At three, and coasting a great deal of the way, it takes much longer. The Platform circled Earth in four hours and a little more. Anything intending interception and rising straight up needed to start skyward long before the Platform was overhead. A three–g rocket would start while the Platform was still below the western horizon from its launching–spot. Especially if it planned to coast part of its journey—and a three–gravity rocket would have to coast most of the way.

So there was time. Coasting, the rising manned rocket would be losing speed. If it planned to go no higher than the Platform's orbit, its upward velocity would be zero there. If it were intercepted 500 miles down, it would be rising at an almost leisurely rate, and Joe and the Chief could check their Earthward plunge and match its rising rate.

This they did. But what they couldn't do was match its orbital velocity, which was zero. They had the Platform's eastward speed to start with—over 200 miles a minute. No matter how desperately they fired braking–rockets, they couldn't stop and maneuver around the rising control–ship. Inevitably they would simply flash past it in the fraction of an instant. To fire their tiny guided missiles on ahead would be almost to assure that they would miss. Also, the enemy ship was manned. It could fight back.

But Joe had been on the receiving end of one attack in space. It wasn't much experience, but it was more than anybody but he and his own crew possessed.

"Chief," said Joe softly into his helmet–mike, as if by speaking softly he could keep from being overheard, "get close enough to me to see what I do, and do it too. I can't tell you more. Whoever's running this rocket might know English."

There was a flaring of vapor in space. The Chief was using his steering–rockets to draw near.

Joe spun his little space wagon about, so that it pointed back in the direction from which he had come. He had four guided missiles, demolition type. Very deliberately, he fired the four of them astern—away from the rising rocket. They were relatively low–speed missiles, intended to blow up a robot ship that couldn't be hooked onto, because it was traveling too much faster or slower than the Platform it was intended to reach. The missiles went away. Then Joe faced about again in the direction of his prospective target. The Chief fumed—Joe heard him—but he duplicated Joe's maneuver. He faced his own eccentric vessel in the direction of its line of flight.

Then his fuming suddenly ceased. Joe's headphones brought his explosive grunt when he suddenly saw the idea.

" Joe! I wish you could talk Indian! I could kiss you for this trick! "

Brown's voice said anxiously: " I'm going to let that manned rocket have a couple more shots. "

"Let us get by first," said Joe. "Then maybe you can use them on the bombs coming up."

He could see the trails of war–rockets on the way out from Earth. They were infinitesimal threads of vapor. They were the thinnest possible filaments of gossamer white. But they enlarged as they rose. They were climbing at better than two miles per second, now, and still increasing their speed.

But the arena in which this conflict took place was so vast that everything seemed to take place in slow motion. There was time to reason out not only the method of attack from Earth, but the excuse for it. If the Platform vanished from space, no matter from what cause, its enemies would announce vociferously that it had been destroyed by its own atomic bombs, exploding spontaneously. Even in the face of proof of murder, enemy nations would stridently insist that bombs intended for the enslavement of humanity—in the Platform—had providentially detonated and removed that instrument of war–mongering scoundrelly imperialists from the skies. There might be somebody, somewhere, who would believe it.

Joe and the Chief were steadied now nearly on a line to intercept the rising manned rocket. They had already fired their missiles, which trailed them. They went into battle, not prepared to shoot, but with their ammunition expended. For which there was excellent reason.

Something came foaming toward them from the nearby man–carrying rocket. It seemed like a side–spout from the column of vapor rising from Earth. Actually it was a guided missile.

"Now we dodge," said Joe cheerfully. "Remember the trick of this maneuvering business!"

It was simple. Speeding toward the rising assassin, and with his missiles rushing toward them, the relative speeds of the wagons and the missiles were added together. If the space wagons dodged, the missile operator had less time to swing his guided rockets to match the change of target course. And besides, the attacker hadn't made a single turn in space. Not yet. He might know that a rocket doesn't go where it's pointed, as a matter of theory. He might even know intellectually that the final speed and course of a rocket is the sum of all its previous speeds and courses. But he hadn't used the knowledge Joe and the Chief had.

Something rushed at them. They went into evasive action. And they didn't merely turn the noses of their space wagons. They flung them about end–for–end, and blasted. They used wholly different accelerations at odd angles. Joe shot away from Earth on steering rocket thrust, and touched off a four–three while he faced toward Earth's north pole, and halfway along that four–second rush he flipped his craft in a somersault and the result was nearly a right–angled turn. When the four–three burned out he set off a twelve–two, and halfway through its burning fired a three–two with it, so that at the beginning he had two gravities acceleration, then four gravities for three seconds, and then two again.

With long practice, a man might learn marksmanship in space. But all a man's judgment of speeds is learned on Earth, where things always, always, always move steadily. Nobody making his first space–flight could possibly hit such targets as Joe and the Chief made of themselves. The man in the enemy rocket was making his first flight. Also, Joe and the Chief had an initial velocity of 200 miles a minute toward him. The marksman in the rising rocket hadn't a chance. He fired four more missiles and tried desperately to home them in. But―

They flashed past his rising course. And then they were quite safe from his fire, because it would take a very long time indeed for anything he shot after them to catch up. But their missiles had still to pass him—and Joe and the Chief could steer them without any concern about their own safety or anything else but a hit.

They made a hit.

Two of the eight little missiles flashed luridly, almost together, where the radar–pips showed the rocket to be. Then there were two parts to the rocket, separating. One was small and one was fairly large. Another demolition–missile hit the larger section. Still another exploded as that was going to pieces. The smaller fragment ceased to be important. The explosions weren't atomic bombs, of course. They were only demolition–charges. But they demolished the manned rocket admirably.

Brown's voice came in the headphones, still tense. " You got it! How about the others? "

Joe felt a remarkable exhilaration. Later he might think about the poor devil—there could have been only one—who had been destroyed some 3,700 miles above the surface of the Earth. He might think unhappily of that man as a victim of hatred rather than as a hater. He might become extremely uncomfortable about this, but at the moment he felt merely that he and the Chief had won a startling victory.