The snapper-boats came out of the darkness of space, leaving a glowing
trail of fire. They were not graceful. Rip could see no beauty in their
lines, but to his professional eye there was plenty of deadly efficiency.
The Connie fighting craft looked like three globes strung evenly on a
steel tube. The middle globe was larger than the end ones, and it was
transparent. From it projected the barrels of two kinds of
weapons—explosive and ultrasonic. Five men usually rode in the middle
ball. One piloted. The other four were gunners.
The end globes were pierced by five large holes. They were blast holes for
the rocket exhaust. Unlike the landing boats, each tube did not have its
own fuel supply. One fuel tank served each globe. The pilot could direct
the exhaust through any tube or combination of tubes he wished, by
operating valves that either sealed or opened the vents.
The system gave high maneuverability to the boats. By playing on the
controls with the skill of an organist, the pilot could shift direction
with dazzling speed.
Snapper-boats used by the Federation operated on the same principle, but
they were of American design, and they showed the American’s love of clean
lines. Federation fighter craft were slim and streamlined, even though the
streamlining was of no use whatever in space. With blast holes at each
end, they looked like double-ended needles. The pilot’s canopy in the
center controlled guns that fired through the front only. Rear guns were
handled by a gunner, who sat with back to the pilot.
Where Connie snapper-boats carried five men, the Federation boats carried
two. The Connies could fire in any direction. The Federation pilots aimed
by pointing the snapper-boat itself, as fighter pilots of conventional
aircraft had once aimed their guns.
Rip watched the boats approach. He was ready to duck inside if they
decided to look the asteroid over before landing. He hoped they wouldn’t
catch sight of his two scouts. He also hoped his nervousness would vanish
when the fight started. He knew what to do, at least in theory. He had
gone through combat problems on the moon during training. But this was
different. This was real. The lives of his men depended on his being
right, and he was afraid of making a wrong decision.
Sergeant-major Koa, an experienced Planeteer with a lot of understanding,
came and stood beside him. He said, "Guess I’ll never get over being
jittery while waiting for the fight to start. I’m sweating so hard my
dehumidifier is humming like a Callistan honey lizard. But it doesn’t last
long once the shooting begins. I get so busy I forget to be jittery."
Before Rip could reply, the snapper-boats flashed over the cave, circled
the asteroid once, and landed on the dark side close by the bomb craters.
The first scout reported. "Santos, sir. I’m fifty yards beyond the stakes
where we had the first base. The snapper-boats landed between the first
two craters. Men coming out of one boat. I count six. Now they’re coming
out of the other boat, but I can’t see very well."
The other scout picked up the report, his Swedish accent thick with
excitement. "I can see them, sor! By Cosmos! There be seven in this boat
on my side. I am behind a rock forty yards to sunward of the second
crater."
Rip turned up the volume of his communicator. "How are they armed? Santos,
report."
"One is carrying a pneumatic chattergun. The rest have nothing in their
hands."
"Pederson, report."
"No weapons I can see, sor."
Koa looked at Rip. "They must think the asteroid is clean. Otherwise
they’d have more than a chattergun in sight. You can bet they have knives
and pistols, too."
Rip had been playing with an idea. He tried it on his men. "These Connies
would be useful to us alive, if we could capture them."