"Nice, comforting prospect!" muttered the Celt. "What do they do
with pirates, anyhow, these days? They can't hang us at the yard-arm,
because airships don't have 'em. Of course they might stage a
hanging-bee with this Legion dangling from the wings, but that would
be pretty hard to manage. It'll be shooting, eh?"

"Probably, if my neutralizer fails."

"You're cheerful about it! The neutralizer may be all right, in its
way, but personally I'm rather strong for these!" He laid a hand on
the breech of the Lewis machine-gun mounted in the gallery, its grim
muzzle pointed out through a slit in the colloid screen. "The six guns
we've got aboard, in strategic positions, look like good medicine
to _me_! Wouldn't it be the correct thing to call the gun-crews and
limber up a little? These chaps aren't going to be all day in getting
here, and when they do--"

"I admire your spirit, Major," interrupted the other, with undertones
of mockery, "but it's of the quality that, after all, can't accomplish
anything. It's the kind that goes against artillery with rifles.
Six guns against perhaps six hundred--and we're not built for rapid
maneuvering. That swarm could sting us a thousand times while we were
giving them the first round. No, no, there's nothing for it now, but
the neutralizer!"

"My will is made, anyhow," growled Bohannan. "Faith, I'm glad it is!"

The Master gave no reply, but took from the rail the little phone that
hung there, and pressed a button, four times. He cupped the receiver
at his ear.