He turned to the intercom. "Gun Crew One, prepare for firing."
"Action?" Mittich asked, fearing the worst.
"Of a sort—preparatory." The Chancellor studied the teleview screen and once more directed the gunners:
"I'm designating a target circle on one of those peaks down there. You may fire at will."
He touched a button and a green halo flared on the screen. He adjusted it to encompass the surface prominence he had in mind. The ship shuddered as the gunner punched his firing stud.
Mittich watched the surface erupt in a brilliant display of angry energy—a thousand kilometers off target.
The Chancellor received the fire control officer's apology, together with a request for permission to try again. The latter he denied.
"They evidently need the practice," Kavula advised.
The Chancellor fumed at his pilot's insolence. "They'll do better at close range," he promised. "Meanwhile, I want this ship stripped for action. I've reached my decision. One close pass is all it should take. We strike after sunup."
Desperately, Mittich hurried over and swung his small arms imploringly. "You can't do this thing!"