I closed my eyes then, and made all sorts of silent vows. Then I said some prayers, prayers begging that Shane be permitted to die honorably rather than live to face the disgrace that waited when this was all over. I added a few prayers for myself along the same line.
We were into the space harbor then, and shooting up alongside the familiar bulk of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere. And all around us the din of atomic and electric cannon fire was now tremendous.
Small space fighter craft, most of them the crimson marked Martian raiders, shot everywhere around that harbor. A dozen of them must have slipped through the atomic mine field and into the harbor already. Many hundreds more, I knew, would follow.
I climbed from the launch in that stinking, smoking din and confusion. Then I was aware that I was dashing to my battle station at an atomic gun turret. The entire harbor was an inferno of confusion.
DASHING across the deck of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere I sidestepped the running space tars and Marines who were also leaping to action at their battle posts. Several of the small Martian space fighter craft were diving alternately at our ship, strafing the decks with withering atomic cannon fire.
And then I was climbing the duralloy ladder to the gun turret, clambering in behind its thick protective armoring of mangonic. The rest of the crew for this atomic gun were already in action, stripping the huge weapon down to firing duty. And in charge of the gun, quite cool and efficient, sending the men through the paces which I thought I'd have to take charge of, was Sergeant Shane!
He saw me, nodded gloweringly.
"Took long enough to make your station, Corporal," he snapped.
I was too damned flabbergasted to speak. I could only gaze open mouthed at him in astonishment as I hurried to my range-finding post at the side of the gun.
And then, moments later, with Sergeant Shane directing our first barrages, we were in action, blazing forth at the duet of diving Martian space fighter craft.
"Screen," Shane snapped.
"Screen four," I said automatically, as the first of the Martian fighter craft dove down at our gun position and into my vizascreen panel sights.
"Point," Shane barked.
"Screen three," I called. The craft was closer now, ready to blaze loose with the twin atomic cannons in its nose.
"Down point one," Shane barked.
"Screen one," I shouted.
"Fire!" Shane roared.
Our atomic cannon blasted. On my vizascreen sight, the small Martian space fighter craft suddenly spilt into a million atoms as the orange bolt from our gun caught it smack on the nose.
"Direct," I reported.
"Screen," Shane snapped.
I stopped marveling at the human factors that made Shane one of the most stupid persons, and yet the smartest of Marines in actual action, that I had ever known. I caught the outline of the second Martian space fighter ship, blazing down toward us from above the falling fragments of the craft we'd shattered.
"Screen two," I called.
"Point one," Shane barked. Then: "Fire!"
This hit was a tail job, our orange bolt of flame completely severing the rear of the Martian space fighter ship; it skewed off to the edge of my viza-
