There were tears in the commander's eyes. "Are you sure, Hemmy?" he asked. "Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes. It would be a mercy."
Wells' lips formed a straight grim line. His words squeezed through it tightly. "All right, Hemmy. Thanks. Thanks. I—I'll go after them now, old man. I'll try and keep in touch with you through the duel, but I—I can't promise—"
He could almost see Hemingway Bowman give his old familiar smile as he answered:
"Then so long, Keith!"
ommander Keith Wells studied the teleview screen. The men were half afraid to look at his strained blanched face.
Repeatedly the violet beam speared through the water, reaching for the NX-1's bow.
"Turn ship. Line up for stern torpedoes," the commander ordered harshly. He realized he could not hold his submarine steady to obtain a perfect sight, for the heat ray needed only thirty seconds to melt through their shell. He would have to swing the ship slowly about; and, as the shape of the enemy crossed the hair-lines on the range-finder, unleash his torpedoes and gamble on hitting the moving target.