yelled; "Where the hell are you guys going? You 'll be in my sector in ten seconds."
Rioz said, "I'm chasing a shell. "
"In my sector?"
"It started in mine and you're not in position to get it. Shut off that radio, Ted."
The ship thundered through space, a thunder that could be heard only within the hull. And then Rioz cut the engines in stages large enough to make Long flail forward. The sudden silence was more ear-shattering than the noise that had preceded it.
Rioz said, "All right. Let me have the 'scope."
They both watched. The shell was a definite truncated cone now, tumbling with slow solemnity as it passed along among the stars.
"It's a Class A shell, all right," said Rioz with satisfaction.
A giant among shells, he thought. It would put them into the black.
Long said, "We've got another pip on the scanner. I think it's Swenson taking after us."
Rioz scarcely gave it a glance, "He won't catch us."
The shell grew larger still, filling the visiplate.
Rioz's hands were on the harpoon lever. He waited, adjusted the angle microscopically twice, played out the length allotment. Then he yanked, tripping the release.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then a metal mesh cable snaked out onto the visiplate, moving toward the shell like a striking cobra. It made contact, but it did not hold. If it had, it would have snapped instantly like a cobweb strand. The shell was turning with a rotational momentum amounting to thousands of tons. What the cable did do was to set up a powerful magnetic field that acted as a brake on the shell.
Another cable and another lashed out. Rioz sent them out in an almost heedless expenditure of energy.
"I'll get this one! By Mars, I'll get this one!"
With some two dozen cables stretching between ship and shell, he desisted. The shell's rotational energy, converted by breaking into heat, had raised its temperature to a point where its radiation could be picked up by the ship's meters.
Long said, "Do you want me to put our brand on?"
"Suits me. But you don't have to if you don't want to. It's my watch."
"I don't mind."
Long clambered into his suit and went out the lock. It was the surest sign of his newness to the game that he could count the number of times he had been out in space in a suit. This was the fifth time.
He went out along the nearest cable, hand over hand, feeling the vibration of the mesh against the metal of his mitten.
He burned their serial number in the smooth metal of the shell. There was nothing to oxidize the steel in the emptiness of space. It simply melted and vaporized, condensing some feet away from the energy beam, turning the surface it touched into gray, powdery dullness.
Long swung back toward the ship.
Inside again, he took off his helmet, white and thick with frost that collected as soon as he had entered.
The first thing he heard was Swenson's voice coming over the radio in this almost unrecognizable rage; "...straight to the Commissioner. Damn it, there are rules to this game!"
Rioz sat back, unbothered. "Look, it hit my sector. I was late spotting it and I chased it into yours. You couldn't have gotten it with Mars for a backstop. That's all there is to it - you back, Long?"
He cut contact.
The signal button raged at him, but he paid no attention.
"He's going to the Commissioner?" Long asked.
"Not a chance. He just goes on like that because it breaks the monotony. He doesn't mean anything by it. He knows it's our shell. And how do you like that hunk of stuff, Ted?"
"Pretty good."
"Pretty good? It's terrific! Hold on. I'm setting it swinging."
The side jets spat steam and the ship started a slow rotation about the shell. The shell followed it. In thirty minutes, they were a gigantic bolo spinning in emptiness. Long checked the Ephemeris for the position of Deimos.
At a precisely calculated moment, the cables released their magnetic field and the shell went streaking off tangentially in a trajectory that would, in a day or so, bring it within pronging distance of the shell stores on the Martian satellite.
Rioz watched it go. He felt good. He turned to Long. "This is one fine day for us."
"What about Hilder's speech?" asked Long.
"What? Who? Oh, that. Listen, if I had to worry about every thing some damned Grounder said, I'd never get any sleep. Forget it."