dly. "It shouldn't be impossible to get
one started, at least."

He found the twin control panels in the bulkhead, and pulled a pair of
switches. There was a smooth humming and a slight click as two hatches
in the deck slid open. Slanting metal chutes rose out of the dark
apertures, just behind the conveyor belts.

"Look at those babies!" breathed Phillips.

The snouts of two miniature spaceships protruded from the storage hold.
Phillips touched other switches, and the sleek missiles were prodded
onto the belts and moved forward until the full, twenty-foot lengths
were in view.

"Phillips, you better be careful with those things!" quavered Truesdale
as the engineer unscrewed a small hatch on one.

"Afraid I'll blow it up?" asked Phillips, peering inside.

"Why not? You never touched one before."

"You go ahead and believe that," retorted the engineer. "Now, I'll just
turn on the radio controls, check the batteries, and feed the bad news
into the launching tubes. Watch!"

Replacing the hatch and securing it, he thought out the procedure to use
at the remote control panels. Turning on the screen above one of them
produced a cross-haired image of the bulkhead directly in front of the
near torpedo. He tried various manipulations until he had focused the
view and caused it to sweep all around the interior of the turret. After
idly watching himself and Truesdale appear on the screen, he returned
the view to dead ahead, switched it off, and turned to the other panel.

"I guess I can finish checking," he said.

Truesdale clambered hastily down the ladder. Phillips shook his head.
"Don't know what use he'll be," he muttered. "Too bad Brecken wouldn't
listen. He at least ... oh, well!"

He wondered whether he himself would stand up when the time came. What
Varret had asked did not sound like much. Just a quick shot and watch
them blow apart. What inhibitions made men black out rather than carry
it through? It was not as if there were any hope for these people.
Surely, it was obvious that to permit them, in their deranged state, to
spread a catastrophic plague was inconceivable. But perhaps emotions
were stronger than reason.

"I'll find out pretty soon," he reflected.

There was little more to do in the turret, except to run the torpedoes
into the launching tubes and bring up a new pair in reserve. With that
much done, he closed the hatch and climbed down the ladder.

* * * * *

I