Lieutenant-Commander Clemens stood ready beside his intra-phone. Engineer McTavish sprawled before his model, his grey eyes going lovingly over every line of it. Ray Control Officer Reynolds fingered his mike.
Jon McPartland swept them with his blue eyes, turned to glare again at the taunting silver sphere in his view screen. He started to speak, stopped as Reynolds raised his head.
"Beg your pardon, sir," said the Ray Officer. "May I give the men false range data when—when—you decide we're finished, sir? I'll feel better just using this stuff, and the gun crews—those that are left—will feel better thinking they're striking a blow for the System.
"It can't do any harm, sir," he pleaded as the Commander snapped his mouth shut, staring hard.
"Reynolds," bellowed the Commander, "ages ago there was an airfighter who opened fire on his enemy with machine guns before he was in range. The opponent usually took evasive action—thinking he was in danger—and lost speed, so that this fighter could overtake and destroy him.
"Reynolds, you're a genius!"
"Man," interrupted McTavish, "our rays would fall short! Those devils wouldn't be fooled by rays—two Spatial units away!"
"No, Mister McTavish," his superior replied slowly, "our disintegrator rays wouldn't fool them. But we have landing searchlights that throw a beam a dozen Spatial units.
"McTavish get down to those beams; stop a couple down to pencils; shade them to throw a pretty violet-colored finger; cut down the power so they'll reach about six units! Get out of here!"