They turned, came on again. Their torpedo-tubes sparkled, and five full salvos struck. The alien mother-ship spilled white flame from a gaping rupture in her flank, and three ships were left to close a second time.
Then two flat, finned, stream-lined shapes did not pull from their pass. They hurtled, instead, headlong into the wounded juggernaut's very heart.
Drunkenly, and with almost deliberate slowness, it split in two, a slain thing, spewing its broken structure and shattered creatures with crazy abandon toward the great blue seas of Earth beneath.
One now there was, its flag-ship insigne half-scorched from its twisted, battered hull. Yet it hurtled through the blackness of Space toward the planet below it, the flush of victory shimmering in its overheated tubes.
There was little to be said. General Taylor stood at the side of the white hospital bed, and Colonel Geofferey Steele, his head swathed in bandages, looked questioningly up at him.
"General, did Major Zukow—"
Taylor's mouth was grim. "He reached us—and the aliens. But we ... managed to take care of the situation ... to give you time." The General's features softened. "You and your crew—a magnificent job. Earth is proud—"
"We were lucky, sir," Steele attempted a grin. "Tried hard not to make any mistakes...."
Taylor smiled then, his laughter an emotional release they had both been seeking. "I—occasionally overlook mistakes!" he said.