"I don't know, Sir," stammered the Captain. His manner and bearing were those of a man who had just been faced with a problem of cataclysmic proportions.
"Well check with the control room—on the double—before our fleet gets out of defensive position." His parade ground roar snapped the Captain out of the catelepsy which had enveloped him and sent him scurrying into the corridor.
An almost hysterical shout whirled the General back to the plotting board.
"Sir, our fleet is attacking—attacking!"
"What? Where?" asked the General, his eyes darting over the board in a frantic effort to orient himself.
"Here, Sir, see. The positions are changing gradually in an unusual pattern. A patrol ship, a destroyer, and a cruiser have all gone right into the enemy vortex field," analyzed the Major.
"Yes, I see—But with the enemy concentrating his ships orthogonally—he'll build a vortex that will disintegrate each and every ship of ours near the vortex," said the General, his mind coming up to full battle speed as it grasped the situation. "My God! Can't they see that they're going to certain death?"
A gong sounded in a muffled sort of way in the plotting room below Ruy, as a gentle buzz told him that the computer had relinquished control.
His fingers began to play rapidly over the keys. Swift orders of strategy were transmitted through steel conduits deep into the computer vaults of the building. There, the orders were transposed into detailed tactics and beamed throughout the solar system. And as his fingers limbered to the keys, he played a deadly tune, a concerto of death.