* * * * *
"And how about that time the gang of Zith stinkers ambushed us on
Sirius V.... Were they surprised when their water-pistols didn't kill
us! They didn't know that water isn't quite as fatal to a Terran as it
is to a Zith."
"Yeah," O'Brien said; "and I'll never forget the smile on Cap Martin's
face as he sprayed 'em with the ship's fire hose."
"Well," the admiral said, sobering, "if you'd seen the pitiful remains
in their slave camps on Sirius VII, the way Cap and I did...." He shook
his head slowly. "We should have bounced a couple Duodec bombs off
their home planet. And on Xantu too. Finished the job right."
The captain gazed down at his shoes. "We might get the chance yet. Any
news lately?"
"Not much. Just the usual rumblings from the Dark Nebulas. But I agree
with HQ that the Xantu are at the bottom of it, without a doubt. You
never know when those varmints are going to start trouble. That's the
reason for all this hush-up preparation; we're going to be ready at the
drop of a helmet if anybody wants to rassle."
"Smart move by HQ for once," Mike said. "Never hurt to be ready for...."
A communications orderly saluted smartly.
"Pardon, Sir. HQ Double urgent."
Harrigan took the flimsy from the orderly and scanned it quickly. His
face went slack. "Good Lord, O'Brien! Hear this: 'Dark Nebula forces
simultaneously attacked Rigel patrol post and Capella II settlement
1400 hours. Personnel annihilated. Fleet headed by Xantu elements
headed Sector I. Return to Base Immediately'."
"Sector I. Sol--Alpha Centauri--Sirius sector!" Mike whistled and shook
his head. "They'll cut us off before we can reach Terra."
"They will if we don't get a move on," the admiral snapped, "and, we
can't fight with a green crew. Gotta get these kids back to Terra."
Harrigan leaped to the audio. His orders were short and sharp.
"Drive room: Joe, full speed home, boy. The bubble's busted wide open.
"Quartermaster: Wilson, prepare to issue battle suits.
"Central: Give me the system. Thanks." He cleared his throat. "All
hands hear this. A state of war exists between the Solar Federation
and the Dark Nebula League. We will attempt to reach Terra base before
being cut off by the enemy fleet. However, just in case, we will be
ready. Battle stations!"
* * * * *
The next few hours were hectic ones, especially for the few seasoned
officers aboard the battleship _Albion_. The _Albion_ was a fairly
new ship. She was fast, heavily armored, and carried the latest guns,
three facts which Harrigan hoped would save them from disaster. He
realized that HQ had had to break radio silence to notify them of the
sudden outbreak of hostilities, but he also knew that the enemy had
undoubtedly intercepted the message, plotted the _Albion_ course,
and sent a half-dozen of their fastest ships in hot pursuit. That's
the way the Dark Nebula League liked to fight: six to one. Harrigan
figured that he just might be able to outrun them; but if the League
ships did manage to cut them off from Terra ... well, he hated the
idea of fighting that bunch of cut-throats with a crew of green kids.
Ordinarily, new spacemen were distributed among crews of seasoned men
at a ratio of about one in ten. To be in top fighting condition, the
_Albion_ should carry four thousand regulars and four hundred greenies.
There were five thousand men on board; one hundred and fifty old line
officers, fifty newly commissioned officers, and forty-eight hundred
Terran youngsters fresh out of ground school.
The officers had done their best to whip the crew into the semblance of
a fighting unit. If a fracas did develop, they might squeeze through if
the kids could follow orders. But in battle things happened almost too
fast to be covered by orders. A man had to think for himself.
Harrigan found himself staring through the forward screen, wishing
that three or four thousand hardened space-Marines would suddenly
materialize out of thin air. O'Brien came steaming up. He sat down
beside the admiral, lit a cigarette and said "Phwooee."
"Right you are," Harrigan answered. "Things sure popped, didn't they?"
"And how. Think we ought to prowl?"
"Guess so. We're going to watch things mighty damned close till we hit
base. Better check the gun-banks. And by the way, Mike, who had the
controls when that order came in?"
"Young chap named McDaniels."
"And his navigator?"
"Rose. Why?"
"Have them report to me when they come off. They're to be congratulated
for getting us away fast and right. If the rest of the crew picks up
as fast as those two, we'll make out O.K. Let's have a look at those
banks."
* * * * *
The _Albion's_ eight gun-banks spangled the ship from nose to tubes
like stripes on a watermelon. Each bank was divided into A, B and C
sections, fore, aft and center. Forty-eight men and two officers manned
each section. The atomic cannon in the nose were fired only by the
ship's Master gunner, a sardonic expert named Irvington.
At number six gun-bank, Harrigan and O'Brien entered section C
hatch. O'Brien's mouth fell open. Along the catwalk behind the gun
emplacements proper, men lounged and leaned. One slept. Several
were smoking and most of them had thrown back their helmets. Of the
forty-eight, three had their eyes on the finder screens.
"Attention," Harrigan roared, and fifty men jerked erect like puppets
on a string. "Get your helmets up and your eyes on those screens. And
keep them there until you're ordered off. This isn't a shake-down any
longer; this is war!" He turned to O'Brien. "Who's in charge here?"
"Lieutenant Sanderson."
"Leave the Ensign in charge and have Sanderson report to the bridge at
once." Harrigan stooped through the hatch. "And Mike, see that the word
is passed along to the remaining gun-crews. Damned if I'll see a repeat
of this!"
"Yes, sir," Mike answered, and turned toward the nervous lieutenant.
"Report to the bridge, Mister, and prepare to be chewed."