SAM TRUMAN, mate and acting captain of the Kwasind, leaned back against the guard rail of the two-hundred-foot stage of the firing rack which cradled the ugly sphere of his powerful salvage tug. He was staring moodily at two of his black gang, clinging like flies to a pair of bulbous towing bitts sticking out of the hull above him. They had finished burnishing the rugged knobs and were now testing the connections of their heater units. Lower down, two monstrous electric cables led into the tug, through which the squat storm craft was sucking the huge stores of reserve energy she would be needing any moment. From beneath, far down where the nadirward nozzle of the main rocket tube threatened the seared and pitted slag of the dockyard, wisps of acrid smoke trailed. The tube was hot, white-hot. On ten seconds’ notice the Kwasind could soar into the void.