The "Dauntless" yawed violently as Fiske stabbed at the Cth switch. The familiar quivering shook them as the ship clawed at the edge of hyperspace—and simultaneously a pile-driver blow struck them astern tearing crewmen from their safety webs and slamming them with bonecrushing force against unyielding plates and bulkheads. The "Dauntless" rang like a giant gong—the sound disappearing slowly with shimmering reverberations that assumed tangible shapes as the harsh red of lower Cth closed around them.
"Skipper!" the ship intercom rattled. "We can't hold her here! Number three converter's dismounted and there's a hole in the engine room big enough to drive a truck through!"
"Enemy cruiser Cth yellow dead ahead—dropping to our component," the talker said.
"Well—we got one of them," Pedersen said. "Might as well take our medicine like good boys. He'll be sowing mines in a minute."
"That Eglan was cold meat," Fiske said. "The broadcast worked!"
"That second ship wasn't. They came in on us like a hawk at a chicken," Pedersen answered.
"They didn't have time to get the full benefit of it."
"You going to give them another chance?"
"We'll have to. We can't stay here. We can't run, and up here the broadcaster doesn't work. So we go down again. With that noise of Bordoni's we should be able to jar their back teeth loose. Which reminds me—I'd better see how he's doing. That broadcaster is pretty near the engine room." He punched the intercom selector. "How's it going, Bordoni?" he asked.