A message flashed down to the flagship instruments. "Come up and fight me," said the Mary Rose.
The flagship answered angrily—"Come down!"
No man on an open deck could breathe the atmosphere up yonder where that steel fleck hung in the blue of Heaven, no aeroplanes could find supporting air, no gun could be discharged, no missile fired—and who could dare the awful cold of Space!
"I will come down," said the Mary Rose.
Like a meteor she fell until she touched the surf of the white cloud sea, and there lay gently rolling, half submerged, a spindle-shaped bolt of lustrous pearly grey, almost invisible. Every available weapon in the Fleet was trained upon her broadside. She sent another message by aerial telegraph to the flagship.
"I have led you out over the Channel so that no harm can be done by a rain of shells. To make myself a better target I shall come within point-blank range." The yacht took up a new position. "Fire!"
"I give you a minute to surrender," replied the flagship. "Is there any need for bloodshed? Yield, or I must sink you."
"Thanks. I am in perfect safety. Fire!"
A ten-inch projectile launched from the flagship exploded midway upon its course.
"Try a torpedo," said the yacht.