Fiske cursed weakly at the unemotional robot voice. Somewhere amidships a dull explosion shook the ship, and then the whole mass of the cruiser moved sideways as a broadside let loose.
Fiske came to awareness with a jerk. Beside him was Pedersen, his face a bloody mask, calmly operating the control board. A piece of scalp had been stripped neatly from his head and hung down the back of his neck together with the smashed wreckage of his helmet.
"Break off, Pete—I'm back. Get a patch on that scalp and a new helmet. You'll look silly breathing space if they hull us up here."
"I thought you had it, skipper," Pedersen grinned through the blood. "That last jump was pretty rough."
"What's up?"
"I don't know. Our Eglan friend is shooting at us from long range. He doesn't seem very eager to close. Came in to three fifty and has been matching us ever since. Looks like he's waiting for help."
"We can't let this go on.—What's our situation?"
"Damage control reports we're about eighty percent effective. They're working on the number three converter but it'll be at least an hour before she's ready. We've lost two secondary batteries, but the mains are all right and our screens are keeping out the stuff our playmate's sending over."
"Our drives?"
"Okay—except for the converters like I said."