Meet Me at Infinity by James Tiptree Jr. Page B

Farbase.”
    “Impellors, Mr. Morgan,” said Quent.
    When Sylla put up his fist Quent followed it until they reached a deep crater which would block the scatter of their star-to-star caller.
    “If we’re in luck,” said Pomeroy, “Farbase can get their tea kettle here in three days, plus or minus a week. All they have is a ferry for picking up pieces. Bound to be pieces—of somebody.” He sighed. “Let’s get back where we can hear ‘em.”
    They tiptoed back-to the horizon. The Drakes below them gave no sign of detecting the approach of Imray’s meteor. Neither did they reveal any intent to use their ship to fire on the town. As the moon on which the Rosenkrantz was riding sank below the horizon of the field they were obliged to leave it and maneuver into full sun-blast. Quent’s eyes burned; he was becoming aware that he had scarcely slept for a week.
    “If only we could give one little burn planetward,” Sylla chafed. “How soon, my scientific serpent?”
    “With their drive off—well—they would be able to read ship-sized burst from our present orbit for at least another hundred degrees of planetary rotation,” said Svensk. “Don’t you agree, Quent?”
    Quent nodded wearily. “And that A.E.V. has about double our acceleration and six times our rocket range and can turn inside us. We wouldn’t have a prayer.” He had said it twice before.
    The lutroid spat dryly and put his elbows on his console. Pomeroy sat, hands cupped over his earphones, motionless.
    “Emission,” said Svensk suddenly. “Imray is down and braking.”
    “That damn ship hasn’t even budged,” Pomeroy said. “I can still hear them yakking to the shore party. We’re all wrong.”
    “Still braking. It just occurs to me, there was space for two more chutes.”
    “He requires rather two more gravity webs,” said Sylla. “He is mad.”
    “Torchers,” said Pomeroy.
    “There is some distortion for which I cannot compensate,” Svensk complained. “He is very close to their horizon—ah—I believe he has managed to deflect.”
    “That ship isn’t going anywhere,” Pomeroy fumed.
    “If I could suppress this wretched bias,” said Svensk. “He is on impellors now, I think. But moving very erratically.”
    “He finds perhaps a ravine.” Sylla was kneading his console.
    “Toward the field again,” said Svensk. “Much too near. One fears that he is omitting to wait for them to lift.”
    “The old maniac will sail right onto their screens,” Pomeroy groaned.
    “While we sit here,” Sylla muttered.
    “If he’s in that canyon in back of the field,” said Quent, “he might sneak under their shield. Provided they weren’t looking. It’s a fairly broad target. Can he—”
    Sylla’s head had snapped around.
    “He understands to shoot,” he told Quent.
    “Can I rely on that, Mr. Sylla?” Quent met the lutroid’s yellow stare.
    “Accelerating on the same line,” Svensk announced. “Dismal.”
    “Got it!” Pomeroy shouted. “Secure locks—but there isn’t time. Up, you bastards! Up!”
    “How long before he cuts their line of sight, Mr. Svensk?”
    “This detestable—at ground level, maximum two minutes. Much too close. They’re bound to spot him.”
    “Over to me on manual, Mr. Sylla,” said Quent. “If you can get to the wrecking lasers it’ll help the display. Ready, Mr. Morgan?”
    The lutroid shot over him and down the shaft.
    “Stay braced and warn Appleby!” Quent yelled after him, coding for drive. “If Imray can hit what he shoots at, this’ll distract them. If not—”
    He rammed home the lever and they pitched in their webs. As the screens faded out the planet bloomed up and swirled crazily.
    “We’re in their sensors now,” gasped Svensk. “I believe—”
    “They’re lifting.” Pomeroy was plastered on his board. “They see us.”
    Quent bent the Rosenkrantz into an atmosphere-grazing turn. Pomeroy was struggling to move a switch. The bridge filled with Drake voices,