LITMIR.BIZ

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another day."

      Io was under the stern and drawing aft when General Quarters was sounded. Men tumbled to their battle stations and manned their weapons. Bullard crawled into his control booth and strapped on his headphone. "Ready," he reported, after an instantaneous check-up of his turret crew. Every man was at his post, poised and ready.

      It was a tableau that was repeated all over the ship. Captain Dongan was at Control, the exec in Plot, and on down the line each was where he should be. And beside each was the inevitable umpire with his ticking watch and his telltale notebook. Now was the hour. Here is where the fun began. Were the Polliwogs fair-weather sailors or what?

      "Start watches," signaled the chief umpire, and the problem was begun.

      At four and a half seconds, Bullard let go his first salvo. Swiftly his men threw in the second load.

      The machinery-packed turret was uncomfortably full of men, what with the doubling up due to the presence of the umpires. These latter were dancing about, trying to keep out of the way while at the same time recording the fire-control data as it came in over the visuals, or otherwise making notes of the efforts of the Pollux men. In the booth with Bullard was Heine Bissel, the turret officer of the Castor, keeping one eye on what Bullard was doing and the other peeking at the list of casualties in his hand. Bullard envied the umpires their freedom of movement, for unlike the men at battle stations, there was no necessity for the umpires to dress themselves in space-suits. In battle, of course, suits were donned before its commencement. A chance hit, penetrating an outer bulkhead, might at any instant cause a compartment to lose its air.

      Bullard's second salvo went, but coincidentally with it the lights flickered, dimmed a moment, then blazed up again. Somewhere below something had gone wrong with the primary lighting circuit and there had been a shift made to another.

      "Your ammunition hoist motors are inoperative," announced Bissel, looking at his list.

      "Hoist by hand!" ordered Bullard, almost in the same breath. He attempted to report the casualty to CC, but the phone was dead on his ears. He snatched its jack from the outlet and plugged in on No. 2 circuit. It was dead.

      His men managed to get the guns fired a third time. It was a full three seconds late, due to the delay occasioned by having to serve the guns by hand, but under the circumstances, in good time. Bullard saw them ram the fourth set of projectiles home. His eyes caught the racing words on the telescribe above his head, "Transverse hit penetrated both CC and Plot — captain and executive dead — control now in sub-CC — Chinnery commanding."

      "Your lights have gone out," remarked Bissel, with a triumphant gleam in his eye, reaching for the cut-out switch overhead. The lights were out.

      Bullard kicked out with his left foot and found the emergency battery switch. Again there was light, this time from the turret's own batteries, independent of any general ship's circuit. Tobelman shot the propellant into the breech of the last gun and closed the firing key. There was no recoil. He jerked the lanyard and fired the guns by percussion. At that moment an umpire rose from behind the loading tray and fired a pan of flashlight powder. There was an instant's brilliance, blinding in its intensity. Then all was black.

      "Your battery has short-circuited," came the calm voice of Bissel through the murk. There was suppressed amusement in it, and Bullard suspected this last casualty was an improvised one. But it did not matter. Bissel had kicked the turret switch open again, and that made it official.

      "Loaded in dark, sir!" called Tobelman. "Ready!"

      "Fire!" Bullard was proud of his gang.

      "Enemy shell just entered and wiped out turret crew," whispered Bissel. There was silence outside the booth as the men desisted from their efforts in the dark. Each had been told the same thing by his own umpire. Bissel snapped on a portable flash long enough to jot down the time of the massacre.

      "Am I dead, too?" inquired Bullard.

      "Oh, no. You're all right. Your turret is all shot, that's all."

      Bullard dived out of the escape hatch. If all his men were dead, there was nothing to be gained by sitting in the darkened control booth waiting for the end. His duty was elsewhere.

      The elevator was stuck between decks, probably another casualty. Bullard, trailed by the panting Bissel, flung himself down the ladder and dropped through the armored hatchway into CC. It was empty, except for a couple of lounging umpires, comparing notes. Bullard cast an anxious eye at the settings on the main control board, but with it saw that the master switch at the top of it was open. Control, of course, had been shifted elsewhere. The positions, of the controls here, regardless of how they were set, were meaningless.

      He dashed down the passage toward sub-CC, a little cubbyhole abaft Plot, not wasting a second in a futile stop at the Plotting Room. What he had seen in CC, would doubtless, be repeated there. As he passed the door of the wardroom he caught a glimpse of the officers crowded in there, and what he saw made him pause a moment and take a closer look. Peering through the glassite panel he was astonished to see most of the officers of the Pollux in there, either out of their spacesuits or in the act of taking them off. Chinnery, whom he thought in temporary command, was one of them.

      "The corpses," grinned Bissel. "They are where they won't interfere and they may as well be comfortable."

      But from the indications, Captain Dongan was anything but comfortable. He was pacing the deck impatiently, grave concern in every line of his rugged face. Beckley looked scarcely less uneasy.

      Bullard hurried on. He had seen every one of his brother officers in there except Fraser. Could it be that he and Fraser were the only survivors? He jerked the door of sub-CC open. The place was a madhouse, five men stationed at voice tubes yelling to five other men in some other place — and each of the five communications was a different one.

      "Thought you were dead," exclaimed Fraser, seeing Bullard come bursting in. "Everything has gone to pot and communications are terrible, but if you are looking for a job, jump down into the engine room and make a check — "

      "Apoplexy!" screamed an excited umpire, pointing at Fraser. "You! You're dead."

      Fraser choked his words in the middle, stamped a foot in disgust, and jerked off his helmet. He turned in the doorway and looked as if he was about to say something; then, as if thinking better of it, stalked off toward the wardroom to join the rest of the "dead."

      Bullard suddenly realized that he was left in command on the ship, but he had not the faintest idea of her running condition beyond knowing from her heave, that she was still accelerating full power. Until he could learn what had happened and what was left in operating condition, he could give no intelligent orders. Then it was that he saw the admiral, Captain Allyn, Commander Warlock and others watching him intently, through the broad deadlight let into the bulkhead between Plot and the sub-CC. So he was to be the goat of this inspection! A sorry trick. He, the next most junior officer on the ship and the latest to join her, put to this severe test! It angered him, but the thought as suddenly struck him that the test was also one of the Pollux. As long as any man of her complement remained alive, he must carry on. These foxy umpires must be shown that the Pollux was prepared, and well prepared. The three tedious weeks of intensive drills and the unceasing labors of the captain and his exec in teaching their men must not be in vain. If the ship still could be handled, he would handle it!

      "Silence!" he roared. The weary talkers at the voice tubes looked at him and blinked. He flung a finger at the first one. "Report!"

      One by one, the five told the story, staccato words coming fast. As the details appeared, Bullard was aghast at the task set for him. The torpedo room, like the turret, was out of commission, its crew wiped out. There was a fire raging in the chemical stores locker. The great mercury boilers were shut down, their superheaters riddled and leaking, and as a result, all auxiliary power was off. There was only the weak and inadequate current flowing in from the helio units, sufficient only to maintain the standing lights. All means of communication was gone except voice tubes. And to cap the climax, the main jets were said to be jammed — full speed ahead. And ahead, perilously

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