Front matter (continued 2)

There was no quarter now. Extinction of one side or the other was the ultimate outcome—there could not be any other possible answer, in that fantastic hecatomb.

"How much power have we?" Bill Nardon asked quietly, and his eyes, shadowed with the knowledge of the awful burden he was about to take upon himself, dwelt briefly on the expectant ones of the Military Strategist.

"Enough for about six hours, if we use the Energon Screen." Nydron said it quietly and with eagerness that was like an expressed hope. "I think we can tip the balance ... don't you?"

Bill glanced for an instant into the screen, where shimmering globes and the League's ships were falling into the tossing, exploding chaos that was the sea.

He thought of the Martian fleet, protected by the Energon, but powerless to neutralize the Cinnabarian defenses without the Terran Dispersal Beam; of the Venusian ships, helpless in that holocaust, despite their invulnerable Vulcanite Hulls, and, with a catch in his throat, of the gallant Terran vessels, able to draw the fangs from the spheres with the Dispersal Beam, but open to the lethal power of those hellish white beams of the Energasts, because they did not have the Multi-Energon. But organized, they could wreak untold havoc on the enemy.

"Give battle orders; we are going up. The Martians, under the protection of their Energon Screens, to get as close as possible to the globes, ready to hurl their bombs, while the Terran ships behind them, screened by the Martian Fleet, aim their Dispersal Beams to neutralize their violet power screens. Keep the Venusians and Mercurians as reserves—that roughly, should be our strategy, modify it as needed, Nydron.... We'll lead!"

He gazed up into the flaming clouds where the League's Fleet and the Energasts had swept upwards in coruscating swirls of intolerable radiance, and then his gaze came to rest on the golden glory of the Aurean girl. "Margalida," he said softly, as if there were an ineffable magic in that name. "Almond blossom," he murmured softly to himself, as if in those few, last tragic moments, he would stamp forever the imprint of her loveliness in his heart.

There was no sound. The tortured atmosphere of the planet regained a measure of peace. Only the sea remained monstrously convulsed as if striving to spew the shattered Globes and spacers now sunk beneath its waves. And on the windswept shore, only a fraction of the Inter-Planetary League's great ships had come to rest.

Of the Energasts there was no sign—not a single violet globe remained in all that vast expanse, under the blazing glory of the eternal stars. But the victory had been almost a defeat. Countless vessels from all six planets, and still more countless dead would lie forever beneath Saturn's shimmering sea. But the relentless fury of the Energasts had been stilled.

And yet.... It was not over. The enemy was helpless for a while. He must not be given time to strike again.

For beneath those billowing mountains of translucent liquid that seemed to be strewn with flashing stars, cities—immense cities filled with Energasts, what remained of them, had not felt their power as yet. The Absolute only knew what fiendish plans even now were being framed, while the victors strove to recover a measure of strength, and sanity.

In the great central cabin of the spacer, where scientists and experts had collected, to lighten in a measure the awful tension of so many hours, Bill Nardon suddenly looked up from the piano—the only real luxury he had requested for himself—and said softly as if thinking aloud:

"So many cities lie in ruins ... so many nations have been bombed. But this will be the first time in history that a great sea is bombed from shore to distant shore, until not a single shard remains of their structures!"

He looked at Nydron.

"Eh?" Nydron seemed to swim up from a great weariness, and became tense, alert. "You mean, we'll project the Dispersal Beam into the depths and systematically bomb mile after mile of sea with radiant bombs?" His eyes were awed. "It might take years!"

"Precisely," Nardon nodded with superlative calm. "Even if it takes a century, until not a single Energast remains to pollute Saturn!" He smiled coldly, and his long, narrow hands evoked a melodious ripple from the keys.

"Among my studies in correlation, are the appraisal of the methods of the Ancients, from immemorial times. There was one Nation, in reality a city, which was periled by the rivalry of another great metropolis. And in their war of extinction, one city—Rome, evolved a ghastly slogan which guided its treatment of its enemy, the slogan was: 'Delenda est Cartago!' And if it takes a century, we shall be able to say, 'Delenda est Cinnabar!' He fell silent, and in the momentary hush, his hands began to weave a mesh of beauty as they hovered over the piano keys. It was a magical undulation of the B Flat tonality ... a divine lullaby to a wonderful child—a girl utterly beloved.