"Holy George!--what sort of stuff are those fellows carrying?" Pedersen breathed, "They outgun us too!" A trickle of blood ran from his nose. "No--we're about even there," Fiske said as another broadside erupted from the "Dauntless" and another load of destruction hurtled towards the Eglan. "Enemy has fired," the talker said, and the "Dauntless" again turned off to one side. This time the salvo missed by a comfortable margin. "What's wrong with them?" Pedersen asked as he stared into the tank. "They're not evading." "Maybe they can't. We hit him near the drives." "There they go--too slow, way too slow!" The "Dauntless" salvo struck and for a moment an intolerable flame lighted space, and when it died the Eglan cruiser had vanished. "Bearing zero four five--enemy cruiser--range one hundred--closing," the talker's voice interjected. "Enemy has fired." * * * * * The "Dauntless" yawed violently as Fiske stabbed at the Cth switch. The familiar quivering shook them as the ship clawed at the edge of hyperspace--and simultaneously a pile-driver blow struck them astern tearing crewmen from their safety webs and slamming them with bonecrushing force against unyielding plates and bulkheads. The "Dauntless" rang like a giant gong--the sound disappearing slowly with shimmering reverberations that assumed tangible shapes as the harsh red of lower Cth closed around them. * * * * * "Skipper!" the ship intercom rattled. "We can't hold her here! Number three converter's dismounted and there's a hole in the engine room big enough to drive a truck through!" "Enemy cruiser Cth yellow dead ahead--dropping to our component," the talker said. "Well--we got one of them," Pedersen said. "Might as well take our medicine like good boys. He'll be sowing mines in a minute." "That Eglan was cold meat," Fiske said. "The broadcast worked!" "That second ship wasn't. They came in on us like a hawk at a chicken," Pedersen answered. "They didn't have time to get the full benefit of it." "You going to give them another chance?" "We'll have to. We can't stay here. We can't run, and up here the broadcaster doesn't work. So we go down again. With that noise of Bordoni's we should be able to jar their back teeth loose. Which reminds me--I'd better see how he's doing. That broadcaster is pretty near the engine room." He punched the intercom selector. "How's it going, Bordoni?" he asked. An anguished wail came out of the speaker. "I was just changing a platter when we got struck. I sat on them! Even on my Stan Kenton album, and that's a classic!! They're busted to hell! All of 'em!" "Bordoni!" Fiske snapped. "Sir?" "Valve it off son. It can't be helped.--Have you any more?" "No, sir." "Can you sing or make noise, or something?" Fiske asked hopefully. "Negative sir. I've got mike fright--always did have." Fiske sighed--"Very well--you're relieved. Report to your station." "Now what?" Pedersen asked.