said coolly, "to preserve life, not throw it away in hopeless resistance! If you fail, we must surrender."

"I'm afraid she's right, Jon," Marshal Denton's voice added quietly.

Jon's angry retort stopped on his tongue, as a strong hand clamped his arm. McTavish whispered, somehow finding his Captain's ear: "We'll still have the Avenger, Sir, to fight in—let them surrender who will."

McPartland fought back his rage. The Engineer was right. It was no time to debate. It was time to start the fight. "I'll instruct my men, Marshal Denton," he said, "about the space torpedoes. The things haven't been used in battle for decades, and they'll be tricky to handle."

"We've laid a cable line directly to the ship, Sir," an invisible officer beside him said respectfully. "You can follow it with your feet."

"Thank you." Jon made his way back, McTavish at his heels, and gave necessary orders to Reynolds at the port. McTavish went inside to superintend the loading, and Jon followed the cable to the Marshal's office.

It was a long, almost silent wait, while the loading went on. There was little to say. Denton received reports, and issued orders. There was the murmur of detached voices, and the sound of slow, careful footsteps in and out of the room.

Jon sat quietly out of the way. Almira was there somewhere. She did not speak to Jon, although he heard her soft voice in occasional snatches of conversation with her father. Jon could imagine her, pale with the strain of this nightmare, lovely, her green eyes angry and scornful. She was angry, he knew, angry at his will to resist—to waste, as she thought, blood and lives in a fight that would seem vain if the darkness weren't lifted. Almira couldn't know what kind of men the outlaws were. Jon knew; he'd fought them!

Restlessly, he started to rise from the chair. The Avenger should be ready. His feet sought for the cable on the floor, and his eyes found it first. It took a full second to realize that dim light had returned.

Denton exclaimed suddenly. The light was growing brighter. Then it was full daylight, and the Marshal was starting for the door. From outside came the rattle of firearms, and a hissing that told of many heat rays flaring into action. The battle for the repair docks!

"Wait, Sir," McPartland cried to the Marshal, "the visa-phone! 

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