The second missed. The voice in the speaker seemed to crack.
"Fire all missiles! They're turning too late! Pull 'em up ahead of the damned thing!"
The deadly contrivances plunged away and further away into emptiness. The third interceptor missed. The fourth. Tiny specks moved gracefully on the radar screen. There was something coming toward the ship that had risen from Kandar. The tracer-trails of missiles appeared against the stars. They made very pretty parabolas. That was all. The thing that was coming left a tracer-trail too. It curved preposterously. The just-risen ship furiously flung missiles at it. It did not dodge. But none of the tracer-trails intersected its own. All of them passed to its rear.
For the fraction of a second it was visible as an object instead of a speck. That object swelled.
It went by. Bors's voice, relayed, said,
"Coup! You're out of action. Right?"
The skipper of the ship just up from Kandar said grudgingly, "Hell, yes! We threw fifteen missiles at it, and missed with every one! This is magic! Can we all have this before the Mekinese get here?"
"I hope so," said Bors's voice. "We're trying hard, anyhow. Will you report to ground?"
"Right," said the speakers in the ship which had just fired fifteen missiles without a hit or interception. "Off."
And then the compartment doors opened again and the normal sounds of a small fighting ship in space began again.