But what if it triggered the enemy warhead? He and the ship
would be converted into vapor within microseconds. Even a partial,
low-efficiency explosion might leave the ship so weakened that it could
not stand the stresses of return through the atmosphere. Firing on the
enemy warhead at this range was not much different from playing Russian
Roulette with a fully-loaded revolver.

Could he move out of range of the explosion and then fire? No. There
were only twelve seconds left before he had to start the pull-out. It
would take him longer than that to get to a safe range, get into
position, and fire. He'd be dead anyway, as the ship plunged into the
atmosphere and burned up. And to pull out without firing would be saving
his own life at the cost of the lives he was under oath to defend. That
would be sheer cowardice.

* * * * *

He hesitated briefly, shrugged his shoulders as well as he could inside
his flying suit, and snapped a switch on the instrument panel. A set of
cross hairs sprang into existence on the screen. He gripped a small
lever which projected up from his right armrest; curled his thumb over
the firing button on top of it. Moving the lever, he caused the cross
hairs to center on the warhead. He flicked the firing button, to tell
the fire control system that _this_ was the target. A red light blinked
on, informing him that the missile guidance system was tracking the
indicated target.

He hesitated again. His body tautened against the straps holding it in
the acceleration couch. His right arm became rigid; his fingers
petrified. Then, with a convulsive twitch of his thumb, he closed the
firing circuit. He stared at the screen, unable to tear his eyes from
the streak of light that leaped away from his ship and toward the
target. The missile reached the target, and there was a small flare of
light. His radiation counter burped briefly. The target vanished from
the radar, but the infrared detector insisted there was a nebulous fog
of hot gas, shot through with a rain of molten droplets, where the
target had been. That was all. He had destroyed the enemy warhead
without setting it off. He stabbed the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED button, and
flicked the red-handled toggle switch, resigning his status as pilot.
Then he collapsed, nerveless, into the couch.

The autopilot returned to control. It signaled the Air Defense network
that this hostile track was no longer dangerous. It receive