Tom Corbett had a plan.
He sat at the control board of the great rocket cruiser, apparently
watching the needles and gauges on the panel, but his mind was racing
desperately. The two-hour deadline had just passed. The great solar
clock had swung its red hand past the last second. Only a miracle could
save the five men on Junior now. But Tom was not counting on miracles.
He was counting on his plan.
"Keep this space wagon driving, Corbett!" ordered Loring from behind
him. "Keep them rockets wide open!"
"Listen, Loring," pleaded Tom. "How about giving those fellows a break?
If I don't pick them up, they'll all be killed."
"Ain't that too bad," snarled Mason.
"Look," said Tom desperately, "I'll promise you nothing will happen to
you. We'll let you go free. We'll--"
Loring cut him off. "Shut your trap and concentrate on them controls!
You and Major Connel and them other punks are the only guys between me
staying free or going back to a prison asteroid. So you don't think I'm
going to let them stay alive, do you?" He grinned crookedly.
"You dirty space crawler!" growled Tom and suddenly leaped up from the
control seat.
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