Bayne cut it in with an expression of disgust.

"Is the Captain there?" demanded Celia Graham's voice excitedly.

Strike took over the squawk-box. "Right here, Celia. What is it?"

"Radar contact, sir! The screen is crazy with blips!"

"Could it be window?"

"No, sir. The density index indicates spacecraft. High value in the chlorine lines...."

"Eridans!" cried Ivy.

"What's the range, Celia?" demanded Strike. "And how many of them are there?"

The sound of the calculator came through the grill. Then Celia replied: "Range 170,000 miles, and there are more than fifty and less than two hundred. That's the best I can do from this far away. They seem to have some sort of radiation net out and they are moving into spread formation."

Strike cursed. "They've spotted us and they want to scoop us in with that force net! Damn that group-mind of theirs ... it makes for uncanny co-ordination!" He turned back to the communicator. "Cob! Are you on?"

"Right here, Captain," came Cob Whitley's voice from the bridge.

"Shift into second-order! We'll have to try and run their net!"

"Yes, sir," Whitley snapped.

"Communications!" called Strike.

"Communications here."

"Notify Luna Base we have made contact. Give their numbers, course, and speed!"

Ivy could feel her heart pounding under her blouse. Her face was deadly pale, mouth pinched and drawn. This was the first time in battle for any of them ... and she dug her fingernails into her palms trying not to be afraid.

Strykalski was rapping out his orders with machine-gun rapidity, making ready to fight his ship if need be ... and against lop-sided odds. But years of training were guiding him now.

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