Ross and Moore exchanged startled glances. Jorgens, white of face, looked up, his hand poised as if paralyzed over the buttons. Then Ross jumped to the rear telescope, which commanded a view of his following seven ships.
There were only six. Where the seventh—the last in the staggered-line—should have been, a faint glow filled the air. Ross stared at it, heart-sick. Was that blow the last sign of his rear guard? A rocket ship blotted out—destroyed! But how? How?
"Jorgens!" he snapped. "You had the Moon on the ray-type a while ago! Try to get that Peak One station again!"
"Aye, sir," breathed Jorgens shakily. He tapped the black key, rattling the call signal feverishly, then snapped on the receiver. The prong-like type fingers made no move.
"The ray-phone!" rasped Ross.
The signal chief plugged the yellow cylinder into its gray socket, and flashed the light beside it. "First Fleet, calling Peak One!" he chanted. "Peak One, answer First Earth Fleet!"
Ross, Moore and Jorgens held their breath. No sound came through the ray-phone trumpet. Jorgens lifted a gray face toward Ross.
The fleet commander smiled wryly. "Let it go, Jorgens. Check all the batteries and connections before you try again."
As Jorgens nodded and disappeared to trail the snaky coils of insulated ray-tubes to their battery reserves, Ross turned to Moore. "Number Eight's gone," he said softly.
Moore blinked. "Gone? Where?"