Triplanetary - E. E. Smith (phonics reader TXT) 📗

equations, launched five torpedoes at fifty gravities of acceleration. One⁠ ⁠… two⁠—three-four-five; the last three as close together as they could fly without setting off their proximity fuzes.

Communications and mathematics and the electronic brains of calculating machines had done all that they could do; the rest was up to human skill, to the perfection of coordination and the speed of reaction of human mind, nerve, and muscle.

Kinnison’s glance darted from plate to panel to computer-tape to meter to galvanometer and back to plate; his left hand moved in tiny arcs the knobs whose rotation varied the intensities of two mutually perpendicular components of his torpedoes’ drives. He listened attentively to the reports of triangulating observers, now giving him data covering his own missiles, as well as the target object. The fingers of his right hand punched almost constantly the keys of his computer; he corrected almost constantly his torpedoes’ course.

“Up a hair,” he decided. “Left about a point.”

The target moved away from its predicted path.

Down two⁠—left three⁠—down a hair⁠—Right! The thing was almost through Zone Two; was blasting into Zone One.

He thought for a second that his first torp was going to connect. It almost did⁠—only a last-instant, full-powered side thrust enabled the target to evade it. Two numbers flashed white upon his plate; his actual error, exact to the foot of distance and to the degree on the clock, measured and transmitted back to his board by instruments in his torpedo.

Working with instantaneous and exact data, and because the enemy had so little time in which to act, Kinnison’s second projectile made a very near miss indeed. His third was a graze; so close that its proximity fuze functioned, detonating the cyclonite-packed warhead. Kinnison knew that his third went off, because the error-figures vanished, almost in the instant of their coming into being, as its detecting and transmitting instruments were destroyed. That one detonation might have been enough; but Kinnison had had one glimpse of his error⁠—how small it was!⁠—and had a fraction of a second of time. Hence Four and Five slammed home; dead center. Whatever that target had been, it was no longer a threat.

“Kinnison, in,” he reported briefly to Fire Control, and took over from Harper the direction of the activities of Sector A.

The battle went on. Kinnison sent Harper and Drummond out time after time. He himself was given three more targets. The first wave of the enemy⁠—what was left of it⁠—passed. Sector A went into action, again at extreme range, upon the second. Its remains, too, plunged downward and onward toward the distant ground.

The third wave was really tough. Not that it was actually any worse than the first two had been, but the CR10685 was no longer getting the data which her Technos ought to have to do a good job; and every man aboard her knew why. Some enemy stuff had got through, of course; and the observatories, both on the ground and above it⁠—the eye of the whole American Defense⁠—had suffered heavily.

Nevertheless, Kinnison and his fellows were not too perturbed. Such a condition was not entirely unexpected. They were now veterans; they had been tried and had not been found wanting. They had come unscathed through a bath of fire the like of which the world had never before known. Give them any kind of computation at all⁠—or no computation at all except old CR10685’s own radar and their own torps, of which they still had plenty⁠—and they could and would take care of anything that could be thrown at them.

The third wave passed. Targets became fewer and fewer. Action slowed down⁠ ⁠… stopped.

The Technos, even the Sector Chiefs, knew nothing whatever of the progress of the battle as a whole. They did not know where their rocket was, or whether it was going north, east, south, or west. They knew when it was going up or down only by the “seats of their pants.” They did not even know the nature of the targets they destroyed, since upon their plates all targets looked alike⁠—small, bright, greenish-yellow spots. Hence:

“Give us the dope, Pete, if we’ve got a minute to spare,” Kinnison begged of his Fire Control Officer. “You know more than we do⁠—give!”

“It’s coming in now,” came the prompt reply. “Six of those targets that did such fancy dodging were atomics, aimed at the Lines. Five were dirigibles, with our number on ’em. You fellows did a swell job. Very little of their stuff got through⁠—not enough, they say, to do much damage to a country as big as the U.S.A. On the other hand, they stopped scarcely any of ours⁠—they apparently didn’t have anything to compare with you Technos.

“But all hell seems to be busting loose, all over the world. Our east and west coasts are both being attacked, they say; but are holding. Operation Daisy and Operation Fairfield are clicking, just like we did. Europe, they say, is going to hell⁠—everybody is taking potshots at everybody else. One report says that the South American nations are bombing each other⁠ ⁠… Asia, too⁠ ⁠… nothing definite; as straight dope comes in I’ll relay it to you.

“We came through in very good shape, considering⁠ ⁠… losses less than anticipated, only seven percent. The First Line⁠—as you know already⁠—took a God-awful shellacking; in fact, the Churchill-Belcher section was practically wiped out, which was what lost us about all of our Observation.⁠ ⁠… We are now just about over the southern end of Hudson Bay, heading down and south to join in making a vertical Fleet Formation⁠ ⁠… no more waves coming, but they say to expect attacks from low-flying combat rockets⁠—there goes the alert! On your toes, fellows⁠—but there isn’t a thing on Sector A’s screen.⁠ ⁠…”

There wasn’t. Since the CR10685 was diving downward and southward, there wouldn’t be. Nevertheless, some observer aboard that rocket saw that atomic missile coming. Some Fire Control Officer yelled orders; some Technos did their best⁠—and failed.

And such is the violence of nuclear fission; so utterly incomprehensible is its speed, that Theodore