He was a long way from the station. He repeated the call three times. At last a faintly audible voice came from the set.

"... this is Commsubron Killer. You are ordered to return immediately...."

The voice faded again.

"Listen!" Mitch bellowed. "Four, no--_five_ enemy submarine--position 3150' North, 7310' West, proceeding northwest--roughly, toward Washington. Probably carrying an answer to Garson's ultimatum. Get help out here. Over."

He heard only a brief mutter this time. "... ordered not to proceed toward Washington. Return immediately to--"

"Not me! You fool! Listen! Five--enemy--submarines--" He repeated the message as slowly as he could, repeated it four times.

"... reading you S-1," came the fading answer. "Are you in distress? I say again. Are you in distress? Over."

Angrily Mitch keyed the carrier wave, screwed the b.u.t.ton tightly down, and kicked on the four-hundred cycle modulator. Maybe they could get a directional fix on his signal and home on it.

The blips were gone from the radar scope. The subs had spotted him and submerged. In a moment he would be catching a torpedo, unless he moved.

He started the engines quickly, and the surfaced sub lurched ahead. He nosed her toward the enemy craft and opened the throttle. She knifed through the water like a low-running PT boat, throwing a V-shaped fan of spray. When he reached the halfway point between his own former position and the place where the enemy submerged, he began jabbing a release at three second intervals, laying a trail of deadly eggs. He could hear the crash of the exploding depth-charges behind him. He swung around to make another pa.s.s.

Then he saw it--the wet metal hulk rearing up like a ma.s.sive whale dead ahead. They had discovered the insignificance of their lone and pint-sized attacker. They were coming up to take him with deck guns.

Mitch reversed the engines and swung quickly away. The range was too close for a torpedo. The blast would catch them both. He began submerging quickly. A sickening blast shivered his tiny craft, and then another. He dropped to sixty feet, then knifed ahead.

G.o.d! Why was he doing this? There was no sense in it, if he meant to run away. But then the thought came: they're returning Old Man Garson's big-winded threat. They're bringing a snootful of radiological h.e.l.l, and that's the d.a.m.ned bayonet-line across the road.

Depth charges were crashing around him as he wove a zig-zag course. The computer was buzzing frantically. Then he saw why. The rocket launcher hadn't retracted; there was still a rocket in it--with a snootful of Uranium 235. The thing was dragging at the water, slowing him down, causing the sub to shudder and lurch.

Apparently all the subs had surfaced, for the charges were falling on all sides. With the launcher dragging at him, they would get him sooner or later. He tried to nose upward, but the controls refused.

He knew what would happen if he tried to fire the rocket. h.e.l.l, he didn't have to fire it. All he had to do was fuse it. It had a water-pressure fuse, and he was beneath exploding depth.

_Don't think about it! Do it!_

No, you've got to think. That's what's wrong. Too much do, not enough think. They're going to wreck mechanical civilization if they keep it up. They're going to wreck Man's tools, cut off his hands, and make him an ape again!

But what's it to you? What can _you_ do?

Dammit! You can destroy five _wrong_ tools that were built to wreck the _right_ tools.

Mitch, who wanted to quit an all-out war, reached for the fusing switch.

_This_ part was _his_ war; destroy the destroyers, but not the producers. Even if it didn't make good military sense--

A close explosion sent him lurching aside. He grabbed at the wall and pushed himself back. The switch--the d.a.m.n double-toggle _red switch_! He screamed a curse and struck at it with both fists.

There came a beautiful, blinding light.