“Easy, now,” said Armstrong. “Why don’t you tell the major what happened?”
“Excuse me, Major, we’ve got somethin’ new on the screen,” said the legionnaire sitting at the console. He swung around to look over his shoulder.
In that instant Snipe saw his face. “Oh my God!” he screamed. “He’s everywhere! He’s everywhere!” His eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell back unconscious yet again.
There were four officers in the command center, now. Major Botchup, Phule, Lieutenant Armstrong, and Flight Leftenant Qual. Snipe was back in his own quarters, under sedation, with a large, sympathetic legionnaire outside the door to make certain nobody disturbed him. Externally, Botchup remained calm; but he kept casting a suspicious eye toward the other three officers, as if expecting them to metamorphose into identical triplets.
“The Hidden Ones are upon us,” said Qual mournfully. “It remains to be seen whether we can escape utter madness.”
“I know what you mean. Damn it, my adjutant’s already close to the edge,” said Botchup. “For a while there, I was beginning to think I was seeing things myself.”
“Well, sir, it’s a good thing that didn’t happen,” said Armstrong. “We need a sound mind at the helm, if you’ll pardon a naval metaphor, sir.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Botchup glumly. He turned to Qual and asked, “The thing is, if these, uh, Hidden Ones, keep up the pressure, how long can we, uh, hold out against them?”
“That alters according to the specific, Major Snafu,” said Qual. “They do tend to focus their attention on the leaders. But a strong-headed sophont such as you…There is no reason to believe you could not withstand it for hundreds of hours.” He flashed a toothy grimace and waved a foreclaw toward the console, which still showed the mysterious presence beyond the camp’s perimeter. “In any case, they are present, and we shall undoubtedly learn the answer.”