"None, sir."
"Magnetic screen interference?" asked the Commander.
"No, sir. No magnetic defense screens apparent on enemy."
"Put ours up full power." Jon McPartland was smiling now, but his eyes were flashing hatred of the alien. Another ten seconds would find them in effective range. The enemy was looming in the view screen, a round glistening sphere—a ball of destruction pitted again his own slim, sleek avenger.
"Screens up, sir, full power," came the response.
Lieutenant-Commander Clemens had headphones clamped over his ears. He was standing by for reports from stations. He turned suddenly, face lined and taut, and reported almost in a whisper:
"We're hit, sir, right through our screens at this range! Partial disintegration in section four. Bulkheads holding."
The Commander was standing wooden-faced, incredulous. But the hatred was building up in his eyes until Clemens shuddered.
"Through our defense screens at this range!" McPartland ground out savagely. He turned back to his view screen with a bitter oath.
There was the sphere, gleaming, flashing against the bottomless black of space—catching starlight, and throwing it back as though the touch of that pure light was distasteful.