The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant. A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly by detectors of the Uranian space fleet.
Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulled himself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased, gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to prevent his going home—even to die.
This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.
Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order. "Port guns alert." Then hush and tension.
The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging, maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that was all.
"Fire number seven."
He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constricting terror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.
This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers trying to blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while the captain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge against an enemy Shano couldn't see.
He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get to Earth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.
The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound. It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.