His eyes still soldered to the plate, Wing said, an overtone of exasperation in his deep-timbered voice; "We've been here two weeks. They didn't spot our black ships in the moon's shadow before. I hardly think they will now. Take it easy."
The two stood there, watching the black shadow of the plate, now flickering with swarms of silver Mercurian ships. Beads of sweat built up on Curt Wing's forehead, swelled, then rolled down his lean, harsh-planed face to make tiny plopping sounds on the duralloy deck beneath their feet.
"Man!" Lt. Packer burst out. "Curt, are you mad? We've got to strike now. Their black light visas'll pick us up any second."
Wing Space Commander Wing didn't answer. Seconds oozed away like viscous blobs of oil. Then:
"Now!"
Packer's itching finger stabbed the red button viciously. Muted through the thick bulkheads surrounding the plotting room came the ululating howl of the ready signal.
Curt Wing moved from the visaplate, clicked on the intercommunications speaker, came back to the plate. He studied it for a moment, unmindful of George Packer who was chewing his nails very deliberately.
Curt Wing lifted his head, turned toward the speaker and said casually,
"Fire at will."