Tauncer smiled. There was something about him that made Kirk more and more uneasy—a lack of concern, a deep-based confidence that didn't fit a man in his position.

Tauncer said gently, "You are the Commander of the Fifth Squadron, Lyra Sector, awaiting orders from your Governor. You are wasting your time."

Kirk's nerves tightened painfully, but he kept his face impassive. "Go on," he said. "I'm listening."

"Ferdias' agent was supposed to meet you here secretly with certain—information." Tauncer spoke with deliberate clarity, as one who explains some problem to a child. "He is not coming. We've known who he is, for some time. And I got to him, before he ever left New York." He nodded to the vera-ray projector across the room. "I used that extremely useful invention on him, and of course he told me all about this place and how he was supposed to meet you here. So I came instead."

Kirk looked at the vera-ray himself, but Tauncer shook his head. "It wouldn't do you any good. The particular piece of information you need—namely, when and where to move—is not known to me, and your contact man had not received it yet either. When it does come through, one of our men will get it—probably already have."

Tauncer's eyes looked up brightly at Kirk, the eyes of the adroit and wily man measuring the honest clod for another defeat.

"You might just as well free me, Kirk. It was a good try, but your cause is hopeless now."

"Not as long as I'm on my feet," said Kirk, getting up. He was a very angry man. "Not as long as the Fifth will follow me. If I don't get orders, I'll make my own."

"No," said a familiar voice behind him. "The Fifth isn't going anywhere, Commander."

Kirk whirled around.

Joe Garstang was standing in the front door. He had a shocker in his hand, pointing with rocklike steadiness at Kirk's breast.

"Drop your weapon," said Garstang.

A red haze swept over Kirk's vision. Through it he saw Garstang, wavering and distorted. Blood hammered in his temples. "You," he said, so choked with rage at this enormity that he could hardly form the words. "My own captain. My friend. Traitor. Working for him—"

Distant and strange in the red mist, Garstang's face became 

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