the services was willing to dare anything at all. A red light flashed on his desk. A buzzer sounded a strident call. He flipped a switch. "Commander talking."

"Far-Search talking. Report contact with large group of ships, probably dreadnought warships. Range, two one oh. Bearing, four oh dash one nine. Speed, seven five. Course, approaching. That is all."

"Keep me advised any change or further details. Advise when contact range is one five oh."

"Wilco."

The Commander pressed a button on his desk. In response, his staff quickly assembled to brief him on the immediate status of Base Q as a war-making machine. As a matter of routine, it was always kept fully ready. His staff merely confirmed this for him.

Seventy-five thousand miles out in space, the Radars of the Far-Search net swept their paths. 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."

Morgan thought the Old Man sounded relieved at the end. And he could not be quite sure, but he thought he heard the Admiral mutter "And good hunting," as the connection broke.

He summoned his aide to take over the office while he went down to the center of the asteroid where I.C., the information center, was located, where he would assume direct command of the base.

As he entered I.C., the Ships Supply Officer reported all ships fully loaded and fueled with gamma-matter, ready for flight. The Missile Officer reported all ships equipped with war-head missiles. The Lock Officer reported all locks manned and ready. Base Q was ready.

As he climbed to his chair over the plotting tank, he noted with satisfaction the controlled tautness of the men's faces. They too, were ready.

As the glowing points of yellow light that represented the enemy fleet crossed the dimly lit sphere in the tank that indicated the one hundred thousand mile radius marking the edge of the primary zone, he took a microphone from a man waiting, nearby.

"Base Q to unknown fleet. I have you bearing four one dash