The voice went dead. A lurid red sundered the black abyss of space. It was a void of baleful crimson in which two ships sped: Charleston's spaceyacht and the destroyer out of Mars. Where V-11 had been was only a glowing scattering of wreckage which faded into nothingness in the eternal night of the void.
"Pali-Vanyi base calling V-11. Calling—"
But V-11 did not answer. V-11 could not answer. V-11 was but debris dropping down into the everlasting clouds.
Charleston's fat face was covered with perspiration.
"Jimmie," he said, almost inarticulately, "something is very screwy around here. Maybe I'd better contact Pali-Vanyi and find out what's going on."
Cutting in the transmitter, Charleston began to bark excitedly:
"Sy 2700 calling Pali-Vanyi Base—"
Simultaneously a torpedo lanced from the destroyer's tubes, darting straight at the spaceyacht. Charleston keyed in the underjets to avoid it, praying fervently the while. A shudder ran through the yacht; then it was running as smoothly as before.
"What happened?" Charleston cried, his eyes darting feverishly from meter to meter.
"The torpedo ripped away our broadcast antenna," Jimmie said slowly. "We can't contact Pali-Vanyi now!"