My hands were still making the motions, my fingers were flicking here, there, my feet touching here, there. But my heart wasn't in it. He already had such an advantage that it was all I could do to keep him in my visor screen. He was to the left, to the right. I got him for a full quarter-second in the wires, but the auto gunner was too far behind, much too far. His own guns flicked red. I punched half a dozen buttons, slapped levers, tried to scoot for home. To the left of my cubicle two lights went yellowish and at the same time my visor screen went dead. I was blind. I sank back in my chair, helpless. * * * * * The speed indicator wavered, went slowly, deliberately to zero; the altimeter died; the fuel gauge. Finally, even the dozen or so trouble-indicators here, there, everywhere about the craft. Fifteen million dollars worth of warcraft was being shot into wreckage. I sat there for a long, long minute and took it. Then I got to my feet and wearily opened the door of my cubicle. Sergeant Walters and the rest of the maintenance crew were standing there. They could read in my face what had happened. The sergeant began, "Captain, I ..." I grunted at him. "Never mind, Sergeant. It had nothing to do with the ship's condition." I turned to head for the operations office. Bill Dickson strolled over from the direction of his own cubicle. "Somebody said you just had a scramble with old Dmitri himself." "I don't know," I said. "I don't know if it was him or not. Maybe some of you guys can tell a man's flying but I can't." He grinned at me. "Shot you down, eh?" I didn't answer. He said, "What happened?" "I thought it was an Ivar K-12, and I put that card in my calculator. Turned out it was one of those new models, K-12a. That was enough, of course." Bill grinned at me again. "That's two this week. That flak got you near that bridge and now you get ..." "Shut up," I told him. He counted up on his fingers elaborately. "The way I figure it, you lose one more ship and you're an enemy ace." He was irrepressible. "Damn it," I said, "will you cut it out! I've got enough to worry about without you working me over. This means I'll have to spend another half an hour in operations going over the fight. And that means I'll be late for dinner again. And you know Molly." Bill sobered. "Gee," he said, "I'm sorry. War is hell, isn't it?" Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy_ July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Dogfight--1973, by Dallas McCord Reynolds