edo sure to hit. We've
got to approach the enemy head-on at full speed. We'll corkscrew up to
them until we get within two hundred yards, then go straight forward
for ten or fifteen seconds, giving us the opportunity to sight the
remaining torpedo directly on them. The heat ray may break through
before I fire--but when I do fire it's a sure hit."

The men had heard every word. Quietly Wells ordered:

"Take the torpedo control, Graham. I'll take the helm."

The first officer obeyed without a word. Keith grasped the helm. The
plans were made for their last desperate attempt.

"Right," the commander said shortly. "Here we go."

* * * * *

There had been a taut silence before, but now, knowing that they were
deliberately offering themselves a perfect target for the heat ray in
order to get their last torpedo home, the intensity was almost
unbearable. The men felt like shrieking, jumping--doing anything to
break the awful hush. The air was charged with the same unnameable
something that heralds a typhoon.

Keith Wells was like a white statue at the helm, save for the
betraying trickles of sweat that coursed down his drawn cheeks. His
hands moved the wheel slowly from port to starboard; his eyes bored at
the screen before him. The ship was in command of a man of steel, a
man with but one purpose....

"Up--up," he ordered. "Hold--in trim--full speed forward!"

He had brought the _NX-1_ directly in line with the octopi ship. And
now the craft leaped forward under full power, while he shot the helm
back and forth ceaselessly. His ship was describing a corkscrewing
motion, weaving straight at the enemy. Grasping her opportunity, the
octopi submarine remained motionless, steadily dousing the approaching
American craft with her silent violet ray and driving the temperature
in the control room to even greater heights.

The distance between them rapidly lessened. Would the plates stand it?
Would the ray melt through the weakened steel before he could fire?
With an effort Keith drove these doubts from his mind ... but he could
not banish a certain dull, steady ache from his consciousness....

* * * * *

The range dwindled. The heat became intolerable. Everyone's clothing
was sopping wet. A man ripped off his shirt, gasping for air. Wells
kept his eyes on the screen, though half-blinded by smarting sweat.
The plates had to give soon, he knew.

The octopi subm