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Six hours after he left them, he was back with a signed lease giving them the use of a scout-ship and fuel to take them out to the Belt and back again; the ship was in the Sun Lake City racks waiting for them whenever they were ready. "What kind of a ship?" Greg wanted to know. "A Class III Flying Dutchman with overhauled atomics and hydrazine side-jets," Johnny said, waving the transfer order.
At first she had been moving straight, but now she was dodging and twisting, her side-jets flaring at irregular intervals. The twin pursuit shells mimicked each change in course, drawing closer to her every second. And then there was a flash, so brilliant it nearly blinded them, and the Scavenger burst apart in space. The second shell struck a fragment; there was another flash.
He hadn't pushed the cut-off button, yet the ship's engines were suddenly silent. He jabbed at the power switch. Nothing happened. Then the side-jets sputted, and he was slammed sideways into the cot. He snapped on the radio speaker. "Control ... can you hear me? Something's gone wrong out here...." "Nothing's wrong," the captain's voice said in his earphones. "Just sit tight.
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