but deadly Irishman who had hated the League with all his powerful heart since the day, dim in time but not in memory, that the Xantus had murdered his parents on Sirius III in the First Campaign. And Irvington, one of the truly fabulous characters in the Federation. The man who could reputedly hit a black basketball at three million miles with an energy gun, who flunked out of pilot's school and turned gunner, and who, annually, spent his leave mining in the Solar asteroid belt and had become the richest man in the Force.

These men led the Albion on its questionable course into the future. Human, and therefore prone to human failings, to be sure. But wise in the ways of space they were too, and aware of its terrible dangers.

At long last, when the ship's clock stood at 1100 hours, the party broke up. Ash-trays were piled high, the magnificent punchbowl was empty. Irvington and O'Brien left together, and Harrigan collapsed on his bunk.

In his dreams he roamed the narrow streets of Mars Center, watched the pale, reed-like dancing girls sway their sensuous bodies before the open-mouthed Federation Cadets, and heard the far-off, haunting desert music. He walked through the fairy cities of Zithobar where the fragile, ethereal architecture belied the sadistic temperament of the inhabitants. And he cruised the tainted stratosphere of the Xantu planet, that dark and sinister world whose peoples enjoyed nothing more than heaving Terran prisoners, one by one, into the mouths of roaring volcanoes.

Anaton, the Federation base on Antares IV, was six days at full blast without Hyper-drive. After the round of hectic activity surrounding their escape from Sector I, officers and crew alike found the uneventful trip restful but boring. O'Brien played endless games of solitaire; Irvington slept; and Harrigan planned. Anaton was the biggest Federation base in Sector II, and the Hyper-drive was there. He just hoped that the base itself was there yet. At 0300 hours on the sixth day, Antares shone like a great red eye and they were three hours out of base. Antares III swung slowly past and Harrigan alerted the crew.

They didn't have long to wait. O'Brien had just stacked his cards away when the starboard watch howled and three Xantu ships screamed across the Albion bow, almost on collision course. Harrigan's brow wrinkled as the tail ship dropped back to engage the Albion and the other two fled. These were not the usual Xantu tactics. Irvington coolly got the black craft between his sights, there was a whoosh and a blinding blast and 

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