"Propulsion—full speed ahead. Make every blast tell!

"Navigation—evasive course. Swing wide to draw them away from the System so that if—if—"

"I understand, sir," came the crisp reply from Lieutenant Parek.

"All ray stations," went on McPartland, "fire at maximum range. Radio—any contact?"

"None, sir."

"Magnetic screen interference?" asked the Commander.

"No, sir. No magnetic defense screens apparent on enemy."

"Put ours up full power." Jon McPartland was smiling now, but his eyes were flashing hatred of the alien. Another ten seconds would find them in effective range. The enemy was looming in the view screen, a round glistening sphere—a ball of destruction pitted again his own slim, sleek avenger.

"Screens up, sir, full power," came the response.

Lieutenant-Commander Clemens had headphones clamped over his ears. He was standing by for reports from stations. He turned suddenly, face lined and taut, and reported almost in a whisper:

"We're hit, sir, right through our screens at this range! Partial disintegration in section four. Bulkheads holding."

The Commander was standing wooden-faced, incredulous. But the hatred was building up in his eyes until Clemens shuddered.

"Through our defense screens at this range!" McPartland ground out savagely. He turned back to his view screen with a bitter oath.

There was the sphere, gleaming, flashing against the bottomless black of space—catching starlight, and throwing it back as though the touch of that pure light was distasteful.

What form of intelligence destroyed, killed without warning—-without speech?

Clemens' voice broke into the red haze that hovered over his Commander: "Hit again, sir, Section 8. Almost complete disintegration of hull. Bulkheads holding."

Jon McPartland spoke his thoughts aloud. "I saw the ray that time, just a faint glimmer across the black. It should have hit Section 6! And—and 

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