Conrad had another worry, one that he did not voice, that the ship’s weapons might not work as planned. More than any of the rest he knew the weakness of depending on theoretical predictions. He knew how frequently the most brilliant computations were confounded by previously unsuspected natural laws. There was no substitute for test—and these weapons had not been tested. He lost his habitual grin and even got into a bad-tempered difference of opinion with Rhodes as to the calculated time of “coming out.”
The difference of opinion was finally settled; a half hour later Rhodes said quietly, “It’s almost time, gentlemen. Battle stations.” He went to his own seat, strapped himself in, and snapped, “Report!”‘
“Co-pilot.”
“Radio!”
“Radar!”
“Special weapons ready.”
“Dead man!” Don finished.
There was a long wait while the seconds oozed slowly away. Rhodes spoke quietly into a microphone, warning Malath to be ready for free fall, then called out, “Stand by!” Don took a tighter grip on the demolition switch.
Suddenly he was weightless; ahead of him and in the passenger ports on each side the stars burst into being. He could not see Mars and decided that it must be “under” the ship. The Sun was somewhere aft; it was not in his eyes. But his view ahead was excellent; the Little David, having begun life as a winged shuttle, had an airplane-type conning port in front of the piloting chairs. Don’s position let him see as clearly as Rhodes and his co-pilot and much better than could the others.
“Radar?” inquired Rhodes.
“Take it easy, Skipper. Even the speed of light is—Oh, oh! Blips!”
“Co-ordinates and range!”
“Theta three five seven point two; phi minus zero point eight; range radius six eight oh.”
“I’m feeding it in automatically,” Conrad cut in sharply.
“Tracking?”
“Not yet.”
“In range?”
“No. I think we should sit tight and close range as much as possible. They may not have seen us.”
They had slowed their headlong flight earlier to permit maneuvering; nevertheless they were closing with the “blips” at more than ninety miles a second. Don strained his eyes to try to make out the ships, if such the radar reflections were. No use—his protoplasmic scanners were no match for electronic ones.
They stayed that way, nerves on edge and stomachs tight, and range steadily closing, until it seemed that the blips must not be the task force, perhaps were even some wandering uncharted asteroid-when the radio alarm, sweeping automatically the communication frequencies, clangingly broke the silence. “Get it!” shouted Rhodes.
“Coming up.” There was a short wait. “They demanded that we identify. They’re our babies, all right.”
“Switch it over here.” Rhodes turned to Conrad. “How about it?”
“I ought to be closer. Stall ’em!” Conrad’s face was grey and wet with sweat.
Rhodes touched a key and spoke into his mike. “What ship are you? Identify yourself.”
The answer was amplified through the horn—over the Captain’s head. “Identify or be fired upon.”
Rhodes glanced again at Conrad, who was too busy to look back. Rhodes spoke into the mike, “This is the destroyer Little David, commissioned privateer, Venus Republic. Surrender immediately.”
Don strained his eyes again. It seemed to him that there were three new “stars” dead ahead.
The answer came back with hardly more than transmission delay. “Federation flagship Peacemaker to pirate ship Little David: surrender or be destroyed.”
To Rhodes’ inquiry Conrad turned a face contorted with uncertainty. “It’s still pretty far. The track hunts on me. I might miss.”
“No time! Go ahead!”
Don could see them now—ships, growing unbelievably. Then, most suddenly, one was a silver globe, then a second—and a third. A cluster of incredible, Gargantuan Christmas tree ornaments where had been three mighty warships, they continued to swell, drew to the left and flashed past the ship… the “battle” was over.
Conrad sighed shakily. “That’s all, Captain.” He turned and said, “Don, you’d make us all feel easier if you’d open that arming switch. We’re not going to need it.”
Mars swam below them, ruddy and beautiful. Schiaparelli Station, I.T.&T.’s powerful interplanetary radio, had already had a silvery “hat” placed on it to guard the secret of their strike; Captain Rhodes had spoken with a lesser station, warning of their arrival. In less than an hour they would ground near da Thon—Malath himself had come out of his icebox, no longer sick and weary but pert as a cricket, willing to risk the warm, thick, moist air of the cabin for a view of home.