Fiske looked into the plotting tank. "Full right turn," he ordered. "If he won't close—we will."
"Skipper!" the intercom chattered. "We've got that tape in. We're ready to roll down here."
"Well—get going," Fiske snarled. "Do I have to tell you everything?"
"No sir—but we thought—"
"Stop thinking and turn that broadcast on!"
"Yes sir!"
"Eighty five degrees right turn—down five," Fiske said. "Full drive—execute!" He bent over the tank and watched the Eglan. The enemy response was slow. "It's working," Fiske murmured happily.
The blindest observer could see that something was wrong with the alien. His maneuvering was sloppy, his fire confused, sporadic, and inaccurate,—and as the "Dauntless" shells crashed into his secondary screens there were no evasive maneuvers or blazing pyrotechnics of point reinforcement. Fiske grinned ferociously. A few more salvos and that would be the end of him.
A violent blow wrenched the "Dauntless" sideways, and another hurled her forward with a tremendous burst of acceleration. And the drives stopped dead. Under momentum alone the cruiser shot onward.