appened. The two ships floated sunward together, neither
approaching nor retreating. But with every second, the need for action of
some sort increased.

"_Mr. Baird!_" barked the skipper. "_This is ridiculous! There must be
some way to communicate! We can't sit here glaring at each other forever!
Raise them! Get some sort of acknowledgment!_"

"I'm trying," said Baird bitterly, "according to orders!"

But he disagreed with those orders. It was official theory that
arithmetic values, repeated in proper order, would be the way to open
conversation. The assumption was that any rational creature would grasp
the idea that orderly signals were rational attempts to open
communication.

But it had occurred to Baird that a Plumie might not see this point.
Perception of order is not necessarily perception of information--in
fact, quite the contrary. A message is a disturbance of order. A
microphone does not transmit a message when it sends an unvarying tone. A
message has to be unpredictable or it conveys no message. Orderly clicks,
even if overheard, might seem to Plumies the result of methodically
operating machinery. A race capable of interstellar flight was not likely
to be interested or thrilled by exercises a human child goes through in
kindergarten. They simply wouldn't seem meaningful at all.

But before he could ask permission to attempt to make talk in a more
sophisticated fashion, voices exclaimed all over the ship. They came
blurringly to the loud-speakers. "_Look at that!_" "_What's he do--_"
"_Spinning like--_" From every place where there was a vision-plate on
the _Niccola_, men watched the Plumie ship and babbled.

This was at 06 hours 50 minutes ship time.

* * * * *

The elliptical golden object darted into swift and eccentric motion.
Lacking an object of known size for comparison, there was no scale. The
golden ship might have been the size of an autumn leaf, and in fact its
maneuvers suggested the heedless tumblings and scurrying of falling
foliage. It fluttered in swift turns and somersaults and spinnings. There
were weavings like the purposeful feints of boxers not yet come to
battle. There were indescribably graceful swoops and loops and curving
dashes like some preposterous dance in emptiness.

Taine's voice crashed out of a speaker:

"_All even-number rockets_," he barked. "_Fire!_"

[Illustration]

The skipper roared a countermand, but too late. The crunching,