Some one, or some detecting equipment, on the Lermontov must have caught view of the tongue as it slid through space to intercept the battlebird. A tongue shot out towards the American beam. But Scone, in full and superb control, bent the axis of his beam, and the Russian missed. Then Scone's was in contact with the hull, and a hole appeared in the irradiated plastic.
Majestically, the Lermontov continued rising—and so cut itself almost in half. And, majestically, it fell.
Not before the Russian commander touched off all the missiles aboard his ship in a last frenzied defense, and the missiles flew out in all directions. Two hit the slope, blew off the face of the mountain on the Lermontov's side, and a jet of atomic energy flamed out through the tunnel created by Scone.
But he had dropped his craft like an elevator, was halfway down the cliff before the blasts made his side of the mountain tremble.
Half an hour later, the base of Eratosthenes sued for peace. For the sake of human continuity, said Panchurin, all fighting must cease forever on the moon.
The Chinese, who had been silent up to then despite their comrades' pleas for help, also agreed to accept the policy of Nationalism.
Now, Broward expected Scone to break down, to give way to the strain. He would only have been human if he had done so.
He did not. Not, at least, in anyone's presence.
Broward awoke early during a sleep-period. Unable to forget the dream he had just had, he went to find Ingrid Nashdoi. She was not in her lab; her assistant told him that she had gone to the dome with Scone.