The Fatal Third

Peace had had its fling in the 21st century. Now was the time for violence ... and rugged Third Officer Webster ... and the miserable Uranians who knew not what they unloosed.
Hanford Webster, third officer of the space ship Polaris , was afflicted with what would have been known in the twentieth century as a first class jinx. However, more about the jinx later. He wasn't thinking about that right now where he was on duty standing his trick in the astrogation chamber. The fleet was nearing its destination—Uranus. And then it happened.
One instant the ten-ship Earth fleet was streaking through space. The next moment nine of the ships broke up into small pieces, actually disintegrating there in his visi-plate before the bulging eyes of Mr. Webster. Twisted fragments of metal formed a cloud in space and began to fall in a gentle arc toward the planet Uranus some fifty thousand miles away. It was a hideous cloud, liberally sprinkled with frozen bits of human beings who had been the pride of the space fleet only a split second before.
The tenth ship almost didn't get away. It was flying lookout position four hundred miles behind and above the main fleet. Even so, it got a severe jolt—like smashing into a solid wall. If anybody except Third Officer Hanford Webster had been at the controls God only knew what would have happened.
Third Webster saw the whole thing in the visi-plate just as his own ship gave a mighty lurch. A lesser man might have blacked out under the shock. But Webster kept his faculties. Almost automatically he kicked the Polaris in a wide circle away from the tiny ship that had put out from Uranus. And at the same time he started to check the damage.
First, he called over the intercom. First.
No answer.
Second, he called.
Here, came a weak answer. What happened?
I don't know yet, but we're the only ship left. Find the First and come up.
Okay.
One after another Webster checked the crew. No one dead or even seriously hurt. Fourteen men had been knocked out. There were a few sprains and pulled tendons and at least one bruised soul. Even disaster seems to have a sense of humor. The Chief Machinist had been sitting in the head when the blow struck. They found him there helpless, thrust deep into the toilet, wildly cursing.