"Guess so. We're going to watch things mighty damned close till we hit base. Better check the gun-banks. And by the way, Mike, who had the controls when that order came in?"
"Young chap named McDaniels."
"And his navigator?"
"Rose. Why?"
"Have them report to me when they come off. They're to be congratulated for getting us away fast and right. If the rest of the crew picks up as fast as those two, we'll make out O.K. Let's have a look at those banks."
The Albion's eight gun-banks spangled the ship from nose to tubes like stripes on a watermelon. Each bank was divided into A, B and C sections, fore, aft and center. Forty-eight men and two officers manned each section. The atomic cannon in the nose were fired only by the ship's Master gunner, a sardonic expert named Irvington.
At number six gun-bank, Harrigan and O'Brien entered section C hatch. O'Brien's mouth fell open. Along the catwalk behind the gun emplacements proper, men lounged and leaned. One slept. Several were smoking and most of them had thrown back their helmets. Of the forty-eight, three had their eyes on the finder screens.
"Attention," Harrigan roared, and fifty men jerked erect like puppets on a string. "Get your helmets up and your eyes on those screens. And keep them there until you're ordered off. This isn't a shake-down any longer; this is war!" He turned to O'Brien. "Who's in charge here?"
"Lieutenant Sanderson."