But hell would be open in the Break tonight. Five slim frigates and forty-two tiny corvettes against sixteen firsts, eighteen seconds and ten frigates. Ship for ship; but what unbalanced firepower! Their advantage would be surprise, if nothing slipped, and maneuverability where the Grimnal ships would have their hands full just keeping clear of the cliffs. And this was the fulcrum. A sudden flare from the maindeck. "Cover that!" Resi snapped. Then to Ward, "They are cooking the liquor." Ward nodded. Apparently Resi had a good idea of what was expected. That was one good thing. The liquor, as they called it, was their explosive. A revolting, highly inflammable slime brewed of seaweed and fats. It was prepared in port, but had to be brought to a firing temperature on board. This was done by heating in large kettles and kept just below boiling. When a gun was to be fired, a certain measure of this soup was poured down the muzzle to a sizzling hot firing chamber, kept hot by a covered charcoal packing and quickly sealed by a lava-stone ball. It was the gunner's sense of timing then to know when the gun was ready, and slam the firing stud with a hammer. This slapped flint to steel inside the chamber--and wham. But it was touchy. If the gunner swung too soon, nothing. If he waited too long, it fired itself. If the chamber was too cool, it would not fire at all; if too hot, it might go the second the ball was rammed. A very delicate operation. And in the midst of battle--with charcoal flying, hot shot coming in, glowing fires under the kettles and spilled hot liquor everywhere--it was hard to see what kept a ship from blowing the whole battle apart. But that never happened. The liquor was easily diluted with water, and they went into battle with special water crews sloshing down the decks. And the stuff was fast. In the Gola Island fight, with fairly hot guns, they were loading, aiming and firing in about ten seconds. The _Windsong_ eased along, the narrows loomed closer and Ward began to tighten. Any second he expected the double bows of a Grimnal first-liner to slide into sight, followed by another, and another, and another.... He felt the urge to move about, to do anything as long as he was moving. He noticed the Kali were the same. They were as restless as the troubled waters of the Break--lunging, hissing, swirling, rocking up and down. They were constantly at the rail relieving themselves, or rattling the dipper at the water barrel. And he could see the glint of their eyes as they threw quick glances in his direction. He caught Resi watching too, and moved away. * * * * * They didn't trust him. They were waiting for him to call it off. They expected him to; probably wanting him to. He suddenly found he was quivering like a captured bird. He gripped the rail hard with both hands to stop. But it wouldn't stop. It galloped through him, ran him down and trampled him. And in panic he saw what it was. Fear.