"Yes, sir. The school I commanded taught advanced theory of Plan K."

"Very good. You will proceed immediately to Base Q. As a final word I will repeat the absolute necessity of obeying your orders to the letter! Good luck."

The young man saluted, collected his orders and walked out. Two hours later, he was in space.

Commander Morgan's office was perched in a plastic bubble high on a crag overlooking Base Q. Directly below it lay a few of the multitude of locks that provided haven for the protecting fleet of P-ships. A vast array of domes and other geometrical shapes bore witness to the hive of machine-shops, storerooms, offices, et al, that kept the fleet operating. And on the far horizon towered the mighty structure of the delta-level converter, the reason for the existence of Base Q. A quarter of a million tons of high-test steel and special alloys, machined to tolerances of less than a thousandth of an inch, with another hundred thousand tons of control equipment, it was yet delicate enough so that it could not have functioned in the gravity field of any planet. This asteroid, small as it was, was barely below the permissible limit.

Commander Morgan's

The Commander sat at his desk, watching the latest flashes in the news-caster. They were not good. At this very moment, the President of the Federation was in conference with the representatives of the Combine, discussing the wording of the protocol that would probably be signed in a few hours. And no word—no hint—that anyone in the Federation outside the services was willing to dare anything at all. A red light flashed on his desk. A buzzer sounded a strident call. He flipped a switch. "Commander talking."

"Far-Search talking. Report contact with large group of ships, probably dreadnought warships. Range, two one oh. Bearing, four oh dash one nine. Speed, seven five. Course, approaching. That is all."

"Keep me advised any change or further details. Advise when contact range is one five oh."

"Wilco."

The Commander pressed a button on his desk. In response, his staff quickly assembled to brief him on the immediate status of Base Q as a war-making machine. As a matter of routine, it was always kept fully ready. His staff merely confirmed this for him.

Seventy-five thousand miles out in space, the Radars of the Far-Search net swept their paths. 

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