"I'll tell you what I mean," snapped Coxine, "when I want you to know
it!"

He turned to the intercom and began to bawl orders into the microphone.

"All hands! Stand by your stations for attack!"

There was an answering roar of approval from the crew.

"We're making our first strike, you space crawlers! A jet liner from
Mars to Venus. There'll be lots of fancy things aboard her. Things the
Solar Guard wouldn't give you on the Rock!"

There was another roar over the loud-speaker.

"But the first man that takes anything but what I tell him will find
himself on the wrong end of two big fists!"

"We're closing in, Captain," interrupted the voice from the radar
bridge. "The angle of approach is in our favor. I don't think they've
seen us yet!"

"Keep watching her, Joe," replied Coxine, and turned to his two henchmen
on the control deck. "You, Wallace! Take number-one jet boat. Russell,
Stephens, Attardi, and Harris. Each man will take a paralo-ray pistol
and rifle. Report to your boat when I give the order."

There was a pause as the men named scurried to their stations. Coxine
continued, "The following men will come with me in boat number two.
Shelly, Martin, and the Space Kid. The rest of you man the forward and
aft blasters. But no one fires until Lieutenant Simms gives the order!"

He turned to Simms and stared at the man coldly. "I'll be in contact
with you all the time. You'll fire when I say to fire, and not before.
Is that clear?"

Simms nodded.

"Range-fifty thousand yards to liner, Captain!" reported the radar
bridge. "I think she's sighted us!"

"Forward turret!" roared Coxine. "Put a blast across her bow just to
show how friendly we are!"

"Aye, aye, sir," acknowledged a voice from the gun turret.

In the turret Tom listened to the orders to attack the helpless
spaceship with mounting anxiety. If he could only plant the signal on
the _Avenger_ before going to the liner, he might be able to remain
aboard the passenger ship and escape. He was interrupted in his thoughts
by a rough voice in back of him.

"Hey, Kid! Space Kid!" yelled Gaillard, the commander of the gun turret.
"Come on! You heard the orders, didn't you? Get me the range."

"Right away," answered Tom. He stepped to the range finder, quickly
figured the speed of the jet liner, their own speed and the angle of
approach. Racking them up on the electronic tracker, he turned back to
Gaillard, "Let her go!"

"Fire!"

There was