one seven. Range one oh oh. Identify yourself. Identify yourself. Over." His words were spaced out with painful clarity. A hush had fallen over I.C.

The loud-speaker on the wall came to life with a squawk, after a few seconds.

"Fleet Four to Base Q. This is Fleet Four, operating under orders from the Jupiterian Combine. Over."

"Base Q to Fleet Four. According to the Treaty of Porran, space within a radius of one hundred thousand miles of Base Q has been designated a primary defense zone of the Federation. I therefore order you to leave this zone within one hour. Failure to comply will make you liable to full action on our part. I have the time, now, as one three four seven. You have until one four four seven to comply. I further warn you that an approach within twenty thousand miles will make you liable to immediate action, regardless of time. Over."

The men in the room stared, open-mouthed. All had dreamed of hearing these words spoken in these tones to the Combine. A cheer might have been given, had it not been for discipline.

In a few seconds, the loud-speaker squawked again. "Fleet Four to Base Q. Our orders are to assume a position at twenty-five thousand miles radius pending renegotiation of the Treaty of Porran. I suggest you contact your headquarters before doing anything rash. Over."

The Commander sat with a smile on his lips. Quietly he handed the microphone back to the radioman. In a minute, the loud-speaker squawked, again. "Fleet Four to Base Q. Did you receive my last transmission? Acknowledge, please. Over."

The radioman looked at the Commander, questioningly, but he only shook his head.

"Can't you turn that damn squawk-box off? It's distracting."

As the minutes crept by, the bright dots in the tank moved closer. The Commander took the Public Address microphone.

"Attention, all personnel, this is the Commander talking. The Fourth Fleet of the Combine entered the Zone twenty minutes ago. They were given an ultimatum but are showing no indication of compliance. Therefore, we are going to blast hell out of them." The echoes from his voice rolled back from speakers all over the base. "The people at home do not think we can do it. I know we can. I have not asked their permission. It is not needed. My orders are explicit and fully cover the situation. My orders to you are equally explicit. Go out there and teach the bloody bastards a lesson." He turned back to the men in I.C. "Scramble flights one, two, three, and four. Others to follow at intervals of five minutes until all are in space. Flight plan King Baker. Initial Time, one four five oh. Execute."

The talkers took up the chant.

"Flight one. Flight one. Scramble. Scramble. Execute."

"Flight two ..."

Etc.

In the tank, green points of light moved out. The first four came into position and stopped in the four quadrants of the circle of which the center was the point at which the enemy would be at Initial Time. The following flights moved out to other points on the circle.

Time seemed to stop. In I.C., the Flight Directors gave the orders that moved their flights into position and briefed them on future tactics in quiet voices. The electronic computers and other devices moved silently. The clock made no noise as its hands moved towards the final moment.

The Commander moved some dials under his hands. He pushed a button and a red light showed on the lead dreadnought of the enemy column.

"This is the initial target." The designation was relayed to the flights.

The second hand of the clock was making its final sweep. All voices quieted. The Commander raised his fist. As the clock's hand came to the top, his fist slashed down.

"Execute!" The battle was on.

Flight Commander Dennis, Flight One, heard the final word as he sat in the small bubble on top of the dense package of machinery that was a P-ship. Swiftly, his hands closed switches. The course had already been chosen and