" He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRB
machines. "As you well know."

At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7, 2136, the statistical ratio on the SRB
machines stood at 21-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All facts
considered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by Proxima
Centaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on the
total information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vast
flow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol and
Centaurus systems.

21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in the
enemy's favor. Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus,
older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra's rate of
technocratic advance. Terra was pulling ahead.

"If we went to war now," Reinhart said thoughtfully, "we would lose.
We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack." A harsh, ruthless
glow twisted across his handsome features, distorting them into a
stern mask. "But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensive
designs are gradually gaining on their defenses."

"Let's hope the war comes soon," Kaplan agreed. "We're all on edge.
This damn waiting...."

The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. The air was
full of tension, the _elan_. He left the SRB rooms and hurried down
the corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Security
wing. It wouldn't be long. He could practically feel the hot breath of
destiny on his neck--for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set in
a humorless smile, showing an even line of white teeth against his
tanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He'd been working at it
a long time.

First contact, a hundred years earlier, had ignited instant conflict
between Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flash
fights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.

And then the long, dreary years of inaction between enemies where
contact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light.
The two systems were evenly matched. Screen against screen. Warship
against power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an iron
ring that couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radical
new weapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.

Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endless
buildings and streets, Terrans hurrying back and forth. Bright specks
that were commute ships, little eggs that ca