"Magnus dead." Moore shook his head. "Who takes over?"
"On the Moon? I happen to know, because it came up at the conference five years ago. Queen Boada and the two chief lords form a Council of Three. That'll be Boada, Horta and Artana, Lord of the Peaks. You remember him?"
"Sure." Moore wagged his jaws, chewing reminiscently. "Nice kid."
"Well, he was sixteen then. He'll be twenty-one, grown up. And say! Remember the Princess? Illeria. She was fourteen, she'll be nineteen now. Sweet kid."
"Skinny," grunted Moore.
"Yes," Ross agreed absently. "Well, we'll get a welcome from Boada and Artana. Maybe Horta will kick up a fuss, but he's the minority."
The ray-type machine came to life with a faint rattle. Jorgens watched it critically, then stared as the words ran out on the page. He waited for the sentence to finish, then snatched the sheet from the machine and held it out in trembling fingers to Ross.
The message was brief. Ross read it, shoved it at Moore, and grasped the orders tube. "Gun crews!" he sang out. "Load fore and after torpedo tubes and stand by!" He waited for the "Aye, sir!" to sound from both gun stations, then turned back to Moore.
The navigator was standing with jaw agape. He repeated the message word for word as if in a hypnotic spell. "Nagasaki destroyed. Purple Death."
Ross shook his arm. "Harry, snap out of it! We've got to fight!"