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bastard’s going to do next, do we?’
    ‘For heaven’s sake, man ...’
    ‘Sorry, Skip. Mutiny, I’m afraid.’
    Ticker rested as he was, with his eyes closed. The sight of the constellations swooping to the missile’s swings was making him feel sick. He was tired out, his head ached badly, he was soaked through with sweat, it was an effort to think. He sat as he was until he became aware that the pull on the line that held him in place had changed, and become constant. He opened his eyes, and found himself looking full at the moon.
    It was sliding slowly leftwards, and the great curve of the Earth was rising on his right.
    ‘She’s going about again,’ he said drearily. ‘I wonder if these bastards ever run out of fuel?’
    Looking down, he found that he was still gripping the hand-tubes. He let them go, and float on their safety-cords while his gloved hands fumbled at the knot of the line which held him. He managed to slacken it off, and dragged himself back on to the main body again. The thing was fairly steady once more, with the starboard tubes firing now and then to turn it; there could be little doubt that it was in the process of coming round for yet another attack. He pulled himself forward on to the nose again, and sat astride of it, holding on to the projecting knobs.
    Perched there, and summoning up his strength, he looked about him. Under his left foot lay the pearl-like Earth, with the night-shadow beginning to creep across her. The sun blazed high to his right. Up to the left the pallid moon lay in a bed of jet scattered with diamond dust.
    Lower to his left, but sliding slowly round towards the front, floated the hulk and the glittering spider-work of girders that would one day be the space-station.
    Once more he turned his eyes down, to the great globe creeping past his left foot. He watched it steadily for some moments; then he lifted his right hand, and turned the air supply up a little.
    ‘Skipper?’ he inquired.
    ‘Receiving you, Ticker,’ acknowledged the Commander. ‘We’ve just managed to get the glass on you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
    ‘I’m going to have a shot at disabling the thing, Skip. I think the line is to have a bash at this short, thick rod-thing in front of me. Can you see it?’
    ‘Yes. I can see it. Might be anything. You’re satisfied it’s part of the radar gear?’
    ‘Obvious, Skipper.’
    ‘Ticker, you’re lying. Leave it alone.’
    ‘Might be able to dent it a bit. Enough to mess it up.’
    ‘Ticker - ‘
    ‘I know what I’m doing, Skip. Here goes.’
    Ticker hooked his toes under two of the projections, and gripped with his knees, for the best possible purchase. He took up the hand-tubes, one in each hand, and slammed away at the short, thick rod with all his might. Presently he paused, panting.
    ‘No damned weight. Like hitting with matchsticks,’ he complained. ‘Not a mark on it.’
    He turned the air on a little more, and screwed up his eyes to squeeze the sweat out of them. The missile was still coming round in its big curve. Twenty degrees more would bring it on to the line of attack again.
    ‘Going to try another of them this time,’ he said, lifting the tubes once more.
    Through the telescope the Commander watched him start to belabour one of the more slender projections: from the right, from the left, from the right, from the...
    There was a flash so brilliant that it stung his eyes.
    That was all: a vivid, silent flash shining for its brief moment as brightly as the sun....
    Then, where it had been, the glass showed nothing but empty darkness, with small, uncaring stars, thousands of light-years beyond....
     
    The Air Marshal spread the message on his desk, and studied it for several long, thoughtful moments.
    His mind went back to the night fifty years ago when the other Ticker had not come back. The same job for grandson as for grandfather. Only it had been easier the first time, with a war on, and the news