
Not too serious a menace, at first, for the raids had not been numerous or destructive. And individually,
the ships had proved slightly inferior in armament to the best of Earth's fighters, although somewhat
superior in speed and man~uvrability. A sufficient edge in speed, in fact, to give the Outsiders their
choice of running or fighting, unless surrounded.
Nevertheless, Earth had prepared for serious trouble, building the mightiest armada of all time. It had
been waiting now, that armada, for a long time. Now the showdown was coming.
Scouts twenty billion miles out had detected the approach of a mighty fleet of the Outsiders. Those
scouts had never come back, but their radiotronic messages had. And now Earth's armada, all ten
thousand ships and half-million fighting spacemen, was out there, outside Pluto's orbit, waiting to intercept
and battle to the death.
And an even battle it was going to be, judging by the advance reports of the men of the far picket line
who had given their lives to report —before they had died —on the size and strength of the alien fleet.
Anybody's battle, with the mastery of the solar system hanging in the balance, on an even chance. A last
and only chance, for Earth and all her colonies lay at the utter mercy of the Outsiders if they ran that
gauntlet —Oh yes. Bob Carson remembered now. He remembered that strident bell and his leap for the
control panel. His frenzied fumbling as he strapped himself into the seat. The dot in the visiplate that grew
larger. The dryness of his mouth. The awful knowledge that this was it for him, at least, although the main
fleets were still out of range of one another.
This, his first taste of battle! Within three seconds or less he'd be victorious, or a charred cinder. One hit
completely took care of a lightly armed and armoured one-man craft like a scouter.
Frantically —as his lips shaped the word 'One' —he worked at the controls to keep that growing dot
centred on the crossed spiderwebs of the visiplate. His hands doing that, while his right foot hovered over
the pedal that would fire the bolt. The single bolt of concentrated hell that had to hit —or else. There
wouldn't be time for any second shot.
'Two.' He didn't know he'd said that, either. The dot in the visiplate wasn't a dot now. Only a few
thousand miles away, it showed up in the magnification of the plate as though it were only a few hundred
yards off. It was a fast little scouter, about the size of his.
An alien ship, all right!
'Thr —' His foot touched the bolt-release pedal.
And then the Outsider had swerved suddenly and was off the crosshairs. Carson punched keys
frantically, to follow.
For a tenth of a second, it was out of the visiplate entirely, and then as the nose of his scouter swung
after it, he saw it again, diving straight towards the ground.
The ground?
It was an optical illusion of some sort. It had to be: that planet —or whatever it was —that now covered
the visiplate couldn't be there. Couldn't possibly! There wasn't any planet nearer than Neptune three
billion miles away —with Pluto on the opposite side of the distant pinpoint sun.
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