"Yes, sir. I was assigned to the Albion, sir, but it took me ten weeks to walk halfway around Pluto from where the Ziths dumped me and catch a ship to Terra base. I take it they dubbed one of their beasties in for me?"
"They sure did," Harrigan answered, "but there wasn't much harm done. I killed you on the bridge, Lieutenant."
"Oh?" Sanderson looked puzzled for a brief moment, then smiled. "Oh, that's good."
"What's the score now?" O'Brien asked.
"Well, sir, the Third attack fleet is standing off Anton now. You have probably guessed that part of a League fleet attacked the base. We picked up a few survivors, but damned few. Then we picked up a weak distress signal from this area and Admiral Brands had us check on it."
"Good thing he did," Harrigan admitted. "And now, Lieutenant, if you will be so good as to radio for a tub to pick us up, I will be most happy to leave this planet."
"Yes, sir, at once." Sanderson saluted and ran for his ship.
Three hours and a few odd minutes later, the transport tub Avalon settled its ponderous bulk beside the Albion and the slow transfer of the living and the dead began. One hundred and fifty-five bodies were slated for burial on Terra; another sixty were missing, whiffed into gas by League guns.
Harrigan sank deeper into gloom as he removed the ship's log and helped O'Brien check the men off the Albion. At last the loading was completed; the Avalon hung for a moment on its anti-gravs, and Harrigan and Commander Johnson, in charge of the tub, looked down on the battered remains of the great craft.