"Attention, troops of Division Thirty, Second Regiment, First Battalion, A Company. If--" and he dared not hesitate, must say it quickly, and then wait, "--Ronal Blair and Kurt Blair are able, they will report to this ship on the double! Terry, Mike--" and there was a sudden catch in his voice that he could not help. Then, "_Come running._" And he watched the viewscreen, turned the knob slowly to revolve its range, a complete 360 degrees. Nothing, nothing as he turned slowly. * * * * * In moments Gundar Tayne would contact him again, question him, and he would have no convincing answer. And then it would be too late. He would have the choice of punching the top button and catapulting himself to safety, not knowing even if Mike and Terry still lived somewhere down there, or staying to carry out a gamble that should have been lost a dozen times already. Suddenly, he saw it. The huge ship of the Director, in a long, circling glide. And the boys were moving again, raising their swords, circling their maces. He had been countermanded-- The blue light was blinking. Another ten degrees of turn-- There was a terrible clattering at the stern of the ship as though it was being rent apart plate by plate. The screen would not depress that far. He revolved it back. Tayne's ship had landed a scant hundred yards away and a guard had already been flung around it. And men were approaching on the run, strange devices in their hands. Then they stopped, were putting the devices in position on the ground. The clanging grew louder now. It would be one of them. One of them with a warning, and if he did not open up, surrender.... But the blue light still blinked. He could have missed them. As he swung the screen, they could have been running in an area yet untouched--the last ten degrees.... The clanging was lessening. He hauled down the knife-switch marked "STERN PORT." The clanging ceased. And then, muffled almost to inaudibility, a wild, far-off yell. "_Shut it, Dad, for the luvva mike, SHUT it!_" And he jammed the switch home. There was an awful racket then. An awful, wonderful racket. Mike, Terry, clambering hell-bent up the spiraling cat-walks! Mike, Terry, safe aboard.... A movement in the viewplate stilled the cry that had formed in his throat. The strange devices--there was a bluish-white flash, and the viewscreen was suddenly white with a ball of coruscating brilliance. Short.... Had to blast-off--but the kids, not braced on the cat-walks.... Still clambering, maybe only half-way up.... Another streak, but no flash. Over. They were bracketing. The next one, whatever it was, the next one would be a bulls-eye. With all his voice he bellowed "_HANG ON!_" even as Mike and Terry burst, breathless, into the control room. His finger hesitated only a moment. And then he jammed the bottom button in and his knees bent, but they held.