"Mister McTavish, what about that damage?" demanded the Commander.

Engineer McTavish brought his lanky form up from the chair and into rigidity. "You gave no orders, sir," he reproached, his grey eyes eager.

"Have your men break out two space-suits, Mister," said McPartland. "You and I will go through the bulkheads and inspect the damaged hull."

"Yes, sir." McTavish turned eagerly to his phone.

"Mister Clemens," snapped the Commander, "hold our course. And you may tell the men we're not through fighting."

McPartland and McTavish stepped carefully through the darkness of section four. Behind them, the bulkhead door had been securely dogged shut against the vacuum of space; before them was a ragged jet patch from which distant stars sent faint light to outline the great rip in the hull.

Both men carried powerful flashlights, but preferred to step carefully among dim outlines rather than use lights until they reached the hull. There had been a ray gun here—and its crew; and men, suddenly exposed to cold and pressureless space, make grim corpses.

At the thought, McPartland's big hand gripped the hammer he carried, so that he almost felt the handle through his heavy gauntlet. He had an insane desire to leap out and wait for the other ship—to batter at its silver hull!

As though sensing the thought, the Engineer broke in, speaking through his suit-communicator: "Here we are, sir."

The flashlight blazed in his hand, its beam spreading along the twisted broken metal of the ship's side. Instantly the big hammer flashed into the beam and against the metal near its broken edge, swung with every ounce of fury and strength in Jon McPartland's arm, shoulder and torso.

"If I'm right," he muttered with the swing, "we'll know it now. We'll have a fighting—chance."

He faltered on the last word, as his blow landed and sent some of its force smashing back up his arm and body. But the Commander knew—as a smith knows—the feel of metal under his strength; and Jon McPartland knew his hunch had been right even before McTavish cried:

"You—you bent it!"

"Right, Mister. I bent it. And I couldn't bend the steel that went into this ship's hull, could I, McTavish?"

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