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Radio telescopes, both on land and aboard the ships of the task force, were following the missile's progress as it drew closer to earth. All were feeding a steady stream of information to the ships' computers. "How soon will you fire the retro-rockets, Tom?" Admiral Walter inquired presently. "In about ten seconds, sir," Tom replied, eying the sweep second hand of the clock.
Now, what information do we have that allows such precision? We have the effects of perturbation of the other planetary bodies and of the sun itself. These we may calculate closely. We shall use them to guide our missile, as they interact with the missile's own inertia." Marks broke off to glare at Rick. He inquired acidly, "Do I perhaps bore you? Or have you a serious itch?
The stone disc worn by Alice chanced to lie exactly in the missile's way, and while it was not broken, the ball, already somewhat checked by passing through several folds of Father Beret's garments, flattened itself upon it with a shock which somehow struck Alice senseless.
"Which means they must have figured out the missile's position as fast as our side did." "And they'll play rough to stop us from finding it," Arv added forebodingly. Within moments, the group clustered in the pilot's cabin felt a gentle bump as the Sea Hound settled on the submerged plateau. Tom relaxed at the controls but kept the rotors going so the craft would remain submerged.
It was obvious that Tom's fears about the missiles colliding were well founded. The mystery blip had veered as the recovery missile speeded up. Within seconds, the three blips met on the screen and fused into a single spot of light. "The probe missile's no longer responding to control!" one of the telemetering scientists called out. Admiral Walter, grim-faced, flashed a questioning look at Tom.
Had the missile's precious contents been destroyed by the blast?! Slowly he began making his way back to the Sea Hound. Unknown to Tom, Bud was fighting a desperate battle with his adversary barely fifty yards away. The divers grappled each other in an octopuslike duel. At such depths, their movements were impeded, as if by oil. The Brungarian pulled out the knife at his belt.
Two of his chamber-servants were openly convicted of treachery, and he had them tied to vast stones and drowned in the sea; thus chastising the weighty guilt of their souls by fastening boulders to their bodies. Some relate that Ulfhild gave him a coat which no steel could pierce, so that when he wore it no missile's point could hurt him.
Moments later, a red light flashed on the master control panel. Tom's finger stabbed a button. Far out in space, the retarding rockets in the missile's nose were triggered for a brief burst, slowing its high speed. Without this, the missile would hurtle to flaming destruction in the atmosphere. "We've picked it up!" shouted a radarman.
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