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Updated: May 24, 2025
They had to be streamlined to pierce the thick, resisting part of the atmosphere. The Platform didn't. It wouldn't climb by itself. It would be carried necessarily at slow speed up to the point where jet motors were most efficient, and then it would be carried higher until they ceased to be efficient.
They watched the radio speedometer creep up 1-2-3-4-5-6 steadily it rose as the acceleration pressed them hard against the back of the seats 8-9 still it rose as the hum of the generator became a low snarl 10-11-12 they were rocketing at twelve miles a second, the tenuous air about the ship shrieking in a thin scream of protest as it parted on the streamlined bow.
The molecular ray pistol was already in his hand, ready to pull any beams off unfortunate victims pinned under them. In a moment he had flashed up through the seven stories, and out to the roof. A gigantic silvery machine rested there, streamlined to perfection, its hull dazzingly beautiful in the sunlight. A door opened, and three tall, lean men stepped from it.
The wind howled out of the northwest, blind with snow and barbed with ice crystals. All the way up the half-mile precipice it fingered and wrenched away at groaning ice-slabs. It screamed over the top, whirled snow in a dervish dance around the hollow there, piled snow into the long furrow plowed ruler-straight through streamlined hummocks of snow.
Federation fighter craft were slim and streamlined, even though the streamlining was of no use whatever in space. With blast holes at each end, they looked like double-ended needles. The pilot's canopy in the center controlled guns that fired through the front only. Rear guns were handled by a gunner, who sat with back to the pilot.
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