It was that, we felt certain. Even at this thirty thousand mile
distance, the bow-beacon seemed streaming upon us. We could not see
that it illumined the _Cometara_, nor could our instruments measure
any added illumination. Our flight-orbit, if held, would carry us with
a swing some ten thousand miles above the South Pole of the Moon. It
would cross diagonally in front of the trajectory that the enemy
vessel was maintaining. But we were off our predetermined course, with
a side-drift toward the enemy. That bow-beacon radiance was exerting a
force upon us, a strange gravitational pull.
Grantline gasped when Drac said it. "If it's that now, what will it be
when we get closer?"
The minutes were passing. The thirty thousand miles between us and the
enemy was cut to ten thousand; to five. The ship was soon visible to
the naked eye. Its visual movement, for all this time measurable only
as a drift upon the amplified images of our instruments, now was
obvious. We could see it plunging forward, could see that probably we
would cross its bow. Within fifty miles? We hoped and guessed that
would be the result, so that with this first passing we could use our
weapons. Fifty miles of distance at combined speeds of some fifty
thousand miles an hour: that would be something like three seconds
from a collision. The danger of a collision, which both ships would do
anything to avert, was negligible; in the immensity of space two
objects so small could not strike each other, even with intention,
once in a million times.
We could not calculate the passing so closely, but suddenly it seemed
that perhaps the enemy could. The bow-beacon radiance, so obviously a
miniature of the weird light-beams streaming from Earth, Mars and
Venus, now swung away from us and was extinguished. Whatever
alteration of our course the enemy had made, they seemed to be
satisfied. The passing would be to their liking. Would it be to ours?
Grantline had left the turret. He was down on the deck, ready with his
men. The weapons were ready.
We had long since advanced beyond the possibility of mathematical
calculations keeping pace with our changing position in relation to
the enemy, but it seemed that the passing would be within fifty miles.
Grantline's weapons would carry their bolt that far.
It was barely two thousand miles away now. Two minutes of time before
the passing. I stared at it, a long, low ship of dark metal, red where
the moonlight struck upon it. I estimated its size to be about that of
the _Cometara_, but it was much more nearly globular. Upon its top,
seeming to project from the terraced dome, was an up-pointing funnel,
like the smokestack of an old-fashioned surface steam vessel; or like
a great black muzzle of an old-fashioned gun. And in a row along the
bulging middle of the hull there was a series of little discs.
The vessel was still a tiny blob, but every instant it was enlarging,
doubling its visual size. Drac said tensely, "Fifteen hundred miles!
We'll pass in a minute and a half."
I turned the angle of the stern rocket-streams. The firmament slowly
began swinging; the enemy ship seemed swaying up over us. I was
turning our top to it, so that Grantline might fire directly upward
from both sides almost simultaneously. It might be possible, if I
could roll us over at just the proper seconds.
But the enemy anticipated us. As they observed our roll, again the
bow-beacon flashed on. It visibly struck us, bathed all our length in
its spreading opalescent radiance.
It seemed for an instant to do nothing. Our dome did not crack; there
was no shock. But our side-roll slowed. The heavens stopped their
swing, and then swung back! We were upon an even keel again, the enemy
level with our bow. Against the force of my turning rocket-streams
this radiation had righted us. It clung a few seconds more, and again
vanished.
Grantline's deck audiphone rang with his startled voice: "Gregg, roll
us over! Quick! I can only fire from one side."
"I can't."
It was too late now. A few hundred miles of distance! Drac stood
clutching me, staring through the port. And I stared, breathless,
awaiting the results of these next few seconds.
The ships passed like crossing, speeding meteors. A few seconds of
final approach; I saw the enemy vessel as an elongated, flattened
globe, with a triple-terraced dome and terraced decks beneath it. That
queer stack on top! The round discs, like ten-foot eyes, gleamed along
the equator of the bulging hull.
One of Grantline's weapons fired a silent flash. Still out of range.
The spit of our electrons leaped from our side. The enemy was
untouched.