Arris cut him off before the boy could detect a smile that was forming on his face. He turned from the pale lunar glow of the sixty-incher to enjoy it. Those kids-when every meteor was an invading dreadnaught, when every ragged scouting ship from the rebels was an armada! He watched Efrid’s squadron soar off on the screen and then he retreated to a darker corner. This was his post until the meteor or scout or whatever it was got taken care of. Evan joined him, and they silently studied the smooth, disciplined functioning of the plot room, Arris with satisfaction and Evan doubtless with the same. The aide broke silence, asking: “Do you suppose it’s a Frontier ship, sir?” He caught the wing commander’s look and hastily corrected himself: “I mean rebel ship, sir, of cQurse.” “Then you should have said so. Is that what the junior officers generally call those scoundrels?” Evan conscientiously cast his mind back over the Tast few junior messes and reported unhappily: J’I’m afraid we do, sir. We seem to have got into the habit.” “I shall write a memorandum about it. How do you account for that very peculiar habit?” “Well, sir, they do have something like a fleet, and they did take over the Regulus Cluster, didn’t they?” What had got into this incredible fellow, Arris wondered in amazement. Why, the thing was self-evident! They had a few ships-accounts differed as to how many-and they had, doubtless by raw sedition, taken over some systems temporarily. He turned from his aide, who sensibly became interested in a screen and left with a murmured excuse to study it very closely. The brigands had certainly knocked together some ramshackle league or other, but-The wing commander wondered briefly if it could last, shut the horrid thought from his head, and set himself to composing mentally a stiff memorandum that would be posted in the junior officer’s mess and put an end to this absurd talk. His eyes wandered to the sixty-incher, where he saw the interceptor squadron climbing nicely toward the particle-which, he noticed, had become three particles. A low crooning distracted him. Was one of the tecks singing at work? It couldn’t be! It wasn’t. An unsteady shape wandered up in the darkness, mur-
muring a song and exhaling alcohol. He recognized the Chief Archivist, Glen. “This is Service country, mister,” he told Glen. “Hullo, Arris,” the round little civilian said, peering at him. “I come down here regularly-regularly against regulations-to wear off my regular irregularities with the wine bottle. That’s all right, isn’t it?” He was drunk and argumentative. Arris felt hemmed in. Glen couldn’t be talked into leaving without loss of dignity to the wing commander, and he couldn’t be chucked out because he was writing a biography of the chamberlain and could, for the time being, have any head in the palace for the asking. Arris sat down unhappily, and Glen plumped down beside him. The little man asked him. “Is that a fleet from the Frontier League?” He pointed to the big screen. Arris didn’t look at his face, but felt that Glen was grinning maliciously. “I know of no organization called the Frontier League,” Arris said. “If you are referring to the brigands who have recently been operating in Galactic East, you could at least call them by their proper names.” Really, he thought-civilians! “So sorry. But the brigands should have the Regulus Cluster by now, shouldn’t they?” he asked, insinuatingly. This was serious-a grave breach of security. Arris turned to the little man. “Mister, I have no authority to command you,” he said mea-suredly. “Furthermore, I understand you are enjoying a temporary eminence in the non-Service world which would make it very difficult for me to-ah-tangle with you. I shall therefore refer only to your altruism. How did you find out about the Regulus Cluster?” “Eloquent!” murmured the little man, smiling happily. “I got it from Rome.” Arris searched his memory. “You mean Squadron Commander Romo broke security? I can’t believe it!” – “No, commander. I mean Rome-a place-a time-a civilization. I got it also from Babylon, Assyria, the Mogul Raj-every one of them. You don’t understand me, of course.” “I understand that you’re trifling with Service security and that you’re a fat little, malevolent, worthless drone and scribbler!”