Admiral." Johnson smiled. "In fact I think that...."

"I don't give a damn what you think, Commander. The Force is no place for fools. I'm done." And Harrigan slammed off the bridge towards his quarters.

Johnson smiled faintly and poured himself a drink.

It was a tired and bedraggled admiral who stepped off the Avalon four hours later into the sunlit bustle of Terra Base I. He felt pride well up in him at the sight of the powerful base, the battlewagons and cruisers and squat tubs, some with their guts spread on the steel docks, waiting for the 'drive installation. Crane winches clanked and howled, welding torches flashed, and many-wheeled trailers sped about with ponderous equipment. But the activity was not frantic; it was efficient and orderly.

He turned for a word with O'Brien, who was now puffing down the gangway, when a bright young Spaceman First stepped up and saluted with a grin. "Admiral Garrison's regards to Admiral Harrigan and Captain O'Brien, and would they report to HQ at once."

"Well, here it comes, Mike."

"Guess so," Mike agreed gloomily. "Why are all these baboons so happy?" He indicated the clustered groups of Spacemen who regarded them smilingly as they passed and talked excitedly among themselves.

"Dunno. Maybe they like the thought of admirals and captains getting chewed down."

They paused briefly outside the door marked:

Adm. Garrison, G.G. Port Admiral

O'Brien shrugged. "Here goes nothin'."

Inside, the tall, balding man behind the desk jumped to his feet with a grin. "Jack! Mike! Boy, you two guys certainly beat anything I ever saw. Talk about your heroes...."

"Cut it, George," Harrigan growled, "you don't have to rub it in."

"Rub what in? Great Caesar, hasn't anyone told you yet? You guys won the war, that's all!"

"Yeah. On the seat of our pants at Antares III," O'Brien muttered.

"But I'm telling you, damnit!" Garrison came around the desk and clapped them on the shoulders. "Those League 

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