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“As you know, that’s UN territory, and we have no jurisdiction. The rocket is sealed for takeoff, but they’re holding it for us until you get there!”

“Right! I’m headed there now!” he answered quickly.

It was twelve minutes later that the police ‘copter settled just outside the rocket enclosure. Karnes had already notified the pilot to be ready for him. He sprinted up the ramp and stood at the airlock of the transcontinental rocket.

It sighed open, and Karnes stepped inside. He was met by a frightened stewardess.

“Tell him to get in here and not to try any funny stuff!” snapped a voice from the passenger cabin.

Brittain was standing at the forward end of the passenger compartment with a levelled gun.

The rocket was tilted at forty-five degrees for the takeoff, and the passenger’s seats had swiveled with a section of the flooring to keep them level, which gave the effect of a stairway which climbed toward the pilot’s cabin in the forward section of the ship. Brittain’s position was at the top of the stairway.

Karnes raised his hands and kept them carefully away from his hip holster.

“All right,” called Brittain, “Close that door and get this ship off the ground.”

The pilot could hear him through the intercom system. The airlock door slid shut again.

“You and the stewardess get into a seat,” the spy continued sharply. “If you try anything funny, I start shooting the other passengers if I can’t hit you.”

Karnes saw then what hold Brittain had on the pilot. The rocketeer couldn’t afford to risk the lives of his passengers.

He and the stewardess slid into the acceleration seats and strapped themselves in. Brittain stepped down the tiered floor and took a rear seat near a frightened-looking blonde girl.

“Anything funny, and Blondie here gets a bullet. Okay, pilot. Take her up!”

There was a faint hiss, and then the rockets began their throbbing roar. Acceleration pressure began to shove the passengers back in their seats. Karnes leaned back and tried–successfully–to suppress the smile of triumph that kept trying to come to his lips.

Brittain had finally made a mistake.

One hundred and twenty-five miles over Pennsylvania, the rockets cut out, and the ship went into free fall. And Brittain’s mistake became evident.

With the abrupt cessation of weight, the padded acceleration seats expanded again, pressing the passengers up against their safety straps. But Brittain had failed to strap himself in.

* * * * *

The expanding seat shoved forward and toward the ceiling. Before he could recover from his surprise, Karnes had undone his own seat belt and snapped his body through the air toward Brittain. They collided with a thump and Brittain’s body slammed against the roof of the cabin with agonizing force. The gun came out of his hand and clanged against a wall, then drifted off harmlessly. Brittain was out cold.

Karnes handcuffed him securely and, with the stewardess’ help, tugged him back to the baggage compartment. One of the passengers was quietly retching into a vacuum disposal chute.

With Brittain securely strapped into an empty baggage rack, Karnes swam back to the pilot’s compartment, pulling himself along the railing that ran along the floor.

The pilot looked relieved. “Thank heaven you got the devil! He got wise when we delayed the takeoff, and threatened to start shooting my passengers. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”

“I know. Let me use your radio.”

It took a couple of minutes to get UN International Investigation on the hookup, but Karnes finally was talking to his superior in the UN office. He reported what had happened.

“Fine, Karnes,” came the tight-beamed voice. “Now, here’s something else you ought to know. Our radar net has spotted robot rockets coming in over the Pole. So far, five of them have been hit by interceptor rockets, but we don’t have them all by a long shot.