Men labored over their plotting tables, noting the information the radar echoes brought back; slowly piecing together the picture. Tight communication beams relayed the data back to the base as fast as it was obtained.

About an hour later, the red light flashed again. The assembled staff fell quiet as the Commander flipped the switch, again. "Commander talking."

"Far-Search talking. Contact previously reported now range one five oh. Bearing, four one dash one seven. Course, approaching. Speed, six nine. Estimated twenty-three ships, dreadnought type, plus small ship screen. Battle formation. That is all."

"Advise at range one one oh."

"Wilco."

The Commander turned to his staff. "Sound a general alert." His words were clipped and clear. He flipped a second switch on his desk. "Radio, this is the Commander. Get me a direct beam to the Chief of Staff. Highest urgency. Scramble with sequence Charlie."

His office had emptied by now, with officers running to their posts as the siren of the general alert wailed through the corridors. As its urgent call died off, a green light showed on his desk, indicating contact with earth. "Morgan, Commander, Base Q, requesting direct line to Chief of Staff. Highest urgency."

"Go ahead, Morgan." The Old Man's voice sounded peculiar after passing through the scrambling and unscrambling machines that twisted the sounds into queer pieces and distributed them among several frequencies and methods of modulation. But, even so, it had a note of strain in it that was not artificial.

"Sir, when you gave me my orders, here, you directed me to obey them to the letter, without question or cavil. Is that right, sir?"

"Yes, it is." There was a threat in the Old Man's voice.

"Then, sir, would you tell me if there has been any change in those orders since my arrival? Aside from administrative details, of course?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Very good, sir. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Not at all. Quite right. Good luck. Signing out."

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