The guns became quiet. The decks of the mother-ship stopped shaking. Captain Stew howled something at the top of his voice and a gunner came running up.
"Why in the name of the Seven Ton God of Hate didn't you call me?" Stew shouted.
The soldier, grim faced, sooted by the cannon smoke, did his own share of cursing.
"Didn't have time," he fumed. "One ship. It sneaked up to the tunnel mouth and didn't even show a light. It tossed out enough stuff to seal that tunnel for keeps. Captain Stew, there's a patrol ship due through from Parma in fifteen minutes. The tunnel's sealed tight."
Freedman knew the ship. His ship was due, with Graham at the wheel. Freedman knew where the radio was on the mother-ship. He dashed down the deck.
The radio man was flashing signals to Parma, warning all flights to wait for approval to come ahead.
Freedman slammed himself down at the board.
He plugged in the tunnel speaker. The power board showed zero. The mighty voice that could speak to anyone in the tunnel was dead.
"The guns shook some wires loose," the control man said. "We'll try the electro-screen."