Brunner looked up to see Dubcek standing before the foot-thick plate glass of the battle room portal, headset on and hands clasped tightly behind his back, the one held by the other opening and closing sporadically. The huge 'window' began at his feet, rising and arching high above his head. For a moment Brunner's eyes lost their focus, and the aging commander seemed to stand among the stars: between two giants and their swarming offspring, trying to orchestrate, or at least influence, a battle between angry gods and their armies, wholly unaware, and indifferent to his presence. The Belgian-Swiss carrier, which had the edge in tempo and preparation, came forward. Squadrons bolted forward, and both sides began to fire. At first the more experienced German/Czech pilots seemed to be holding the enemy off, keeping his forces from linking up into an effective attacking thrust. But the sheer numbers of the ships pouring out at them (which they had no way of anticipating), and the equally surprising effectiveness of the carrier's supporting fire, began slowly but inexorably to turn the tide against them. Lasers and explosive torpedoes flashed. Ships burst silently into flame, or broke apart, or were disintegrated. The tortured voices that came to Brunner through his ear-piece were soon more than he could bear. Almost he wished that the gray goliath would turn its guns on them, that they might respond. But it was a wasted hope. Though tantalizingly close, the aggressor and all his forces were just out of range, and they knew it. Brunner next became aware, to his dismay, that none of this seemed to alarm either Dubcek or his executive officer. The commander watched, but gave no order; and Masaryk continued to speak only to the captain of the corresponding battleship. He suddenly realized what this meant, but a part of his mind refused to accept it. They were sacrificing their own carrier to set up and then destroy the other. Strategically it was sound---weakening the enemy's thrust, buying time for the reinforcements. But what of the lives and humanity, the hundreds of men and women whom Dubcek had just spoken to about courage and judgment? What about their FAMILIES? Didn't he care? Didn't anyone care? And where was the God that he had reluctantly begun to believe in? At that moment all he knew was hatred and grief. For perhaps a minute he ignored his instruments, glaring instead at Dubcek's back, silently daring him to turn around. Suddenly a ship burst apart directly in front of them, not more than ten kilometers off. Out of the wreckage a tiny white projectile moved toward them, and others of similar shape were sent flying in all directions. To his horror Brunner recognized them as men. Too light an object to trigger their shields, the writhing body came straight at them, seeming to gather speed, and with a final orgasm of misery, crashed against the glass.