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Up to that deadline, the pushpots could let the ships back down to Earth without crashing them. After it, they'd run out of fuel before a landing could be made. The deadline came closer and closer. Joe snapped: "Take a degree leeway. We've got ten seconds." He had the manned ship nearly steady. He held down the firing-button, holding aim by infinitesimal movements of the controls.
But gradually they seemed to arrive at an uncertain unanimity. Joe pushed the firing-button again as his own ship touched the due-east mark. Again nothing happened. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Haney pressing down both buttons. The Chief's finger lifted. Mike pushed down one button and held off the other. Roarings and howlings of pushpots.
He watched his direction indicator and the small graphic indicators telling of the drones. The sky outside the ports was dark purple. The launching cage responded sluggishly. Its open end came around toward the east. It wobbled and wavered. It touched the due-east point. Joe stabbed the firing-button. Nothing happened. He hadn't expected it. The seven ships had to keep in formation.
And, so saying, he stepped to the fore midship window of the pilot-house, laid his finger lightly upon the firing-button that controlled the discharge of the torpedo-shells from the tube in the extremity of the ship's sharp snout, and so placed his eye that he brought the jack-staff forward in a direct line with a very small notch in the window-frame.
Fire when ready." "Okay, Mike?" A half-second pause. "Okay!" Joe pressed the firing-button for the take-off rockets. And he was slammed back into his acceleration chair again. But this was three gravities only. Pressed heavily against the acceleration cushions, he could perform the navigation for the fleet. He did.
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