Jon McPartland swept them with his blue eyes, turned to glare again at the taunting silver sphere in his view screen. He started to speak, stopped as Reynolds raised his head.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said the Ray Officer. "May I give the men false range data when—when—you decide we're finished, sir? I'll feel better just using this stuff, and the gun crews—those that are left—will feel better thinking they're striking a blow for the System.

"It can't do any harm, sir," he pleaded as the Commander snapped his mouth shut, staring hard.

"Reynolds," bellowed the Commander, "ages ago there was an airfighter who opened fire on his enemy with machine guns before he was in range. The opponent usually took evasive action—thinking he was in danger—and lost speed, so that this fighter could overtake and destroy him.

"Reynolds, you're a genius!"

"Man," interrupted McTavish, "our rays would fall short! Those devils wouldn't be fooled by rays—two Spatial units away!"

"No, Mister McTavish," his superior replied slowly, "our disintegrator rays wouldn't fool them. But we have landing searchlights that throw a beam a dozen Spatial units.

"McTavish get down to those beams; stop a couple down to pencils; shade them to throw a pretty violet-colored finger; cut down the power so they'll reach about six units! Get out of here!"

The Engineer's lanky body was already through the control room door. Jon McPartland was grinning. A grin that didn't fade even when he looked back to his screen, to see the glinting silver sphere swinging serenely along beside them. He turned to Clemens.

"Tell Lieutenant Parek to close at full speed the second they start for us. No evasive action—straight course and let the spaceboat and cable take it!"

"Navigation acknowledges, sir." Clemens replied solemnly, and the Commander knew his Lieutenant had anticipated and given the order.

"All ray stations ready, sir," added the quiet Reynolds.

McPartland's grin broadened. "Give them the straight data, Mister Reynolds."

"Yes, sir."

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