Um þessa rafbók
“I can’t understand it,” he grumbled. “Police craft are supposed to be able to overtake anything in space. How come that Broman can hold his lead?”
“He’s in a souped-up sports model.” Captain Wheeland didn’t appear to be worried. “He torched his jets when he spotted us.” He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t fret, he’ll get what’s coming to him.
” “Maybe.” Polton glowered at the position screen showing the swirling kaleidoscope of hyper-space. He was younger than Wheeland and took it as a personal challenge that Broman should have eluded capture for so long. He said so. Wheeland shrugged.
“Broman was clever,” he admitted, “but not clever enough. He had the imagination to commit the crime but not enough to foresee the inevitable result. That’s the trouble with criminals,” he went on conversationally. “They know before they commit the crime that we’ll catch up with them but they go ahead just the same. Even at that Broman was more clever than most. He had a get-away ship planned and ready.”
