he said, looking down to Brecken.

The big, ruddy face retreated a few rungs. Phillips could hear the
others scrambling further down. He got his head out of the way before
pulling the switch that opened the hatch. With a subdued humming of
electric motors, the massively constructed door swung down. One after
another, they pulled themselves up into the compartment.

"This must be where they set controls for launching," guessed Phillips,
leaning back against a rack of emergency spacesuits. "That intercom
screen on the bulkhead is probably plugged in to the control room. Looks
as if the torpedoes themselves are stored under that hatch at the after
end."

"How do they kick them off?" asked Brecken.

"Those conveyor belts run them into tubes in the forward bulkhead. A
charge of compressed air blows them out, and then the rockets are
started and controlled by radio."

"You mean we have to point at a target to fire?"

"Oh, no. Once the rockets are going, the torpedo can be maneuvered and
aimed anywhere by remote control."

"I've seen enough," announced Truesdale. "I'm hungry."

At that, they all decided to return to the main deck. Phillips
carefully closed the airtight hatch as they left, then followed the
others in search of the galley.

Later, after a very unsatisfactory meal of packaged concentrates, they
loitered sullenly in the control room once more while Donna studied the
controls. Phillips had finally decided that he could wear the third
spacesuit on the rack if he had to. He was idly examining the tools
supplied with it when his thoughts were interrupted.

Young Truesdale had been monkeying with a range indicator for some time,
but now his sharp outcry drew all eyes to him.

The others immediately gathered to peer over his shoulder. A needle
flickered wildly from one side of the dial to the other.

"Here! Get it balanced," said Phillips, thrusting a powerful arm between
the crowded bodies. As his deft adjustment steadied the needle, he
stepped back and leaned against the bulkhead to study their faces.
Truesdale's was pale.

"It's them!" he panted.

"Well," asked Donna, "what will it be?"

"Whaddya mean?" demanded Brecken, red-faced. "It'll be get dam' well
outa here, that's what it'll be!"

"Let's see you go," invited the girl coolly. "How well do _you_ pilot a
rocket?"

Brecken's jaw dropped. "Wh-wh-what? You crazy? Did you swallow all that
stuff the old man told you?" he sputtered.

"Why not?