Curt Wing's voice barked into the intercom:
"Plan L."
And the outnumbered Earth ships, pulling in their horns of atomic bolts, flashed away from the darkness, their rocket exhausts spurting fire. They blasted into the sky in unison, climbing above the slower Mercurian ships, and hurtled downward, their blue bolts thrusting before them, lashing at the silver ships.
The Mercurian ships swung upward, lumbering, but the Earth ships were darting in and out like slashing knives wielded by agile, practiced hands.
Curt Wing's tight-held breath relaxed, made a whistling sound in the plotting room. He said, "The longest chance I ever took, and it worked." His voice was very low, almost like a prayer.
"Look at them run!" Packer chortled. "You did it again." He was staring into the visaplate, watching the silver ships begin to scatter away from the black Earth ships above them. "This is the knockout punch. We'll drive them away now, forever. Five years they've been nagging us and all the time they waited until they were strong enough to strike."
"Yes," said Wing, "and they almost got us in the slaughtering pit by the asteroid belt. But now...." He halted, snapped into the intercom:
"Attack at will, you itchy-fingered monkeys. They're all yours. Take 'em."
The oval door to the plotting room burst open; a big-framed, heavy-paunched Blackbeard came plowing in.
"Gee, Cap," his heavy voice lumbered. "I bin missing somepin, huh?"