loded harmlessly in space as their mirrors warmed up and volatilized.
But for each bomb that was lost, Stevens launched another, and each one
came closer to its objective than had its predecessor.

Made desperate by the failure of his every beam, the enemy commander
thought to use material projectiles himself--weapons abandoned long
since by his race as antiquated and inefficient, but a few of which were
still carried by the older types of vessels. One such shell was found
and launched--but in the instant of its launching Stevens' foremost bomb
struck its mark and exploded. So close were the other three bombs, that
they also let go at the shock; and the warlike sphere, hemmed in by four
centers of explosions, flew apart--literally pulverized. Its projectile,
so barely discharged, did not explode--it was loaded with material which
could be detonated only by the warhead upon impact or by a radio signal.
It was, however, deflected markedly from its course by the force of the
blast, so that instead of striking the _Forlorn Hope_ in direct central
impact, its head merely touched the apex of the mirror-plated wedge.
That touch was enough. There was another appalling concussion, another
blinding glare, and the entire front quarter of the terrestrial vessel
had gone to join the shattered globes.

Between the point of explosion and the lifeboats there had been many
channels of insulation, many bulkheads, many air-breaks, and compartment
after compartment of accumulator cells. These had borne the brunt of the
explosion, so that the control room was unharmed, and Stevens swung his
communicator rapidly through the damaged portions of the vessels.

"How badly are we hurt, Steve--can we make it to Ganymede?"

Nadia was quietly staring over his shoulder into the plate, studying
with him the pictures of destruction there portrayed as he flashed the
projector from compartment to compartment.

"We're hurt--no fooling--but it might have been a lot worse," he
replied, as he completed the survey. "We've lost about all of our
accumulators, but we can land on our own beam, and landing power is all
we want, I think. You see, we're drifting straight for where Ganymede
will be, and we'd better cut out every bit of power we're using, even
the heaters, until we get there. This lifeboat will hold heat for quite
a while, and I'd rather get pretty cold than meet any more of that gang.
I figured eight hours just before they met us, and we were just