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Updated: May 1, 2025
Santos threw rockets among them and scored hits, but the boats kept coming. The Connies were too far away from the cruiser to return, and they knew it. Getting to the asteroid was their only chance. Rip called, "Santos. Cease fire. Set the launcher for ground level. Let them land, but don’t fire until I give the word." He hoped his plan would work.
At the first sign of a landing party, they would blast in and take to the cave, using the rocket launcher as a defense. The supplies began to arrive. The Planeteers towed them two crates at a time in a steady line of hurrying men. Kemp’s torch sent an incandescent knife three feet into the metal at each cut. He was rapidly slicing out a cave.
While two of you are doing that, the rest break out the rocket launcher and rocket racks and assemble the cutting torch. Koa will make assignments." While the sergeant-major translated Rip’s general instructions into specific orders for each man, the young lieutenant walked to the edge of the sun belt. There was no atmosphere, so the edge was a sharp line between dark and light.
Might furnish a still-shot illustration for somebody's History of Fenris in a century or so. Broadway was empty until we came to the gateway to the spaceport area. There was a single medium combat car there, on contragravity halfway to the ceiling, with a pair of 50-mm guns and a rocket launcher pointed at us, and under it, on the roadway, a solitary man in an olive-green uniform stood.
O’Brine was operating as expected. Rip was having trouble keeping his vision from blurring. He leaned against the rocket launcher and his glove caressed one of the sharp noses in the rack. He heard his own voice before the idea had even taken full form. "Santos! Do you hear me? Santos! Get the Scorpius! Fire before it comes to a stop. And don’t miss!"
The Pretender of Tralee displayed an unexpected gift for organization. He divided all space outside the ship into sectors, assigning one launcher to each sector. If an order to fire came, the separate crews would cover targets in their own areas first. There would be no waste of missiles on one target. The Pretender would have made an excellent officer.
Away the hounds scampered, towling and howling, some up to the fleshwheel, to see if there was any meat; some to the bone heap, to see if there was any there; others down to the dairy, to try and effect an entrance in it; while Launcher, and Lightsome, and Burster, rushed to the backyard of Nonsuch House, and were presently over ears in the pig-pail.
"Meanwhile, to keep from feeling regimented by civilization, you could take your rocket launcher and join the perimeter watchers that range out a thousand miles..." Nance Codiss arrived a week later, with a group of recent Pallastown convalescents.
He yelled, "Frenchy! Watch out!" Then he put both hands before him to protect his helmet. His hands caught the French Planeteer between the shoulders. Visitors! Trudeau held tight to the launcher, but the rocket racks opened and spilled attack rockets into space. They flew in a dozen different directions. Trudeau gave vent to his feelings in colorful French.
Rip didn't know what to do. The rocket launcher, their only weapon, wasn't designed for fighting spaceships. It was useful against snapper-boats and people, but firing at a cruiser would be like sending mosquitoes to fight elephants. He sized up their position. For one thing, they were right out in the open, exposed to anything the Connie cruiser might throw at them.
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