Q. As a final word I
will repeat the absolute necessity of obeying your orders _to the
letter_! Good luck."

The young man saluted, collected his orders and walked out. Two hours
later, he was in space.

* * * * *

Commander Morgan's office was perched in a plastic bubble high on a crag
overlooking Base Q. Directly below it lay a few of the multitude of
locks that provided haven for the protecting fleet of P-ships. A vast
array of domes and other geometrical shapes bore witness to the hive of
machine-shops, storerooms, offices, et al, that kept the fleet
operating. And on the far horizon towered the mighty structure of the
delta-level converter, the reason for the existence of Base Q. A quarter
of a million tons of high-test steel and special alloys, machined to
tolerances of less than a thousandth of an inch, with another hundred
thousand tons of control equipment, it was yet delicate enough so that
it could not have functioned in the gravity field of any planet. This
asteroid, small as it was, was barely below the permissible limit.

The Commander sat at his desk, watching the latest flashes in the
news-caster. They were not good. At this very moment, the President of
the Federation was in conference with the representatives of the
Combine, discussing the wording of the protocol that would probably be
signed in a few hours. And no word--no hint--that anyone in the
Federation outside 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