"— turns into a hydrogen bomb at the flip of a switch."

"Too right. So why doesn't the Arms suppress fusion?"

"First, because the Arms was formed too late. Fusion was already here. Second, because we need fusion. The fusion tube is human civilization, the way the electrical generator used to be. Thirdly, because we won't interfere with anything that helps space travel. But I'm glad-"

"You're begging the…"

"MY TURN, Smoky. I'm glad you brought up fusion, because that's the whole point. The purpose of the Arms is to keep the balance wheel on civilization. Knock that balance wheel off kilter, and the first thing that would happen would be war. It always is. This time it'd be the last. Can you imagine a full-scale war, with that many hydrogen bombs just waiting to be used? Flip of a switch, I think you said."

"You said. Do you have to stamp on human ingenuity to keep the balance wheel straight? That's a blistering condemnation of Earth, if true."

"Smoky, if it weren't top secret I could show you a suppressed projector that can damp a fusion shield from ten miles away. Chick Watson got to be my boss by spotting an invention that would have forced us to make murder legal. There was-"

"Don't tell me about evidence you can't produce."

"All right, dammit, what about this amplifier we're all chasing? Suppose some bright boy came up with an amplifier for telepathic hypnosis? Would you suppress it?"

"You produce it and I'll answer."

Masney said, "Oh, for Christ's sake, you two!"

"Dead right," Anderson's voice answered. "Give us innocent bystanders an hour's rest."

The man in the lead ship opened his eyes. Afterimages like pastel amoebae blocked his vision; but the screen was dark and flat. "All ships," he said. "We can't shoot yet. We'll have to wait 'til they turn around."

Nobody questioned him. They had all watched through the camera in its nose as Mabe Doolin's test missile approached the Golden Circle. They had watched the glare of the honeymooner's drive become blinding, even with the camera picture turned all the way down. Then the screens had gone blank. The fusing hydrogen turned missiles to molten slag before they could get close.

The honeymooner was safe for another day.

Kzanol/Greenberg reached a decision. "Hold the fort," he said. "I'll be right back."

Kzanol watched him get up and pull on his space suit. "What are you doing?"

"Slowing down the opposition, if I'm lucky." The near-ptavv went up the ladder into the airlock.

Kzanol sighed, pocketed the one-man matchsticks of the ante, and shuffled for solitaire. He knew that the slave with the ptavv mind was making a tremendous fuss over nothing. Perhaps it had brooded too long on the hypothetical tnuctip revolt, until all slaves looked dangerous.

Kzanol/Greenberg emerged on the dorsal surface of the hull. There were a number of good reasons for putting the airlock there, the best being that men could walk on the hull while the drive was on. He put his magnetic sandals on, because it would be a long fall if he slipped, and walked quickly aft to the tail. A switch buried in the vertical fin released a line of steps leading down the curve of the hull to the wing. He climbed down. The hydrogen light was terribly bright; even with his eyes covered he could feel the heat on his face. When he knelt on the trailing edge the wing shielded him from the light.

He peered over the edge. If he leaned too far he would be blinded, but he had to go far enough to see… Yes, there they were. Five points of light, equally bright, all the same color. Kzanol/Greenberg dropped the nose of the disintegrator over the edge and pulled the trigger.

If the disintegrator had had a maser type of beam, it could have done some real damage. But then, he could never have hit any of those tiny targets with such a narrow beam. Still, the cone spread too rapidly. Kzanol/Greenberg couldn't see any effect. He hadn't really expected to. He held the digger pointed as best he could the five clustered stars. Minutes ticked by.

"What the hell… Lew! Are we in a dust cloud?"

"No." The man in the lead ship looked anxiously at frosted quartz of his windshield. "Not that our instruments can tell. This may be the weapon Garner told about. Does everyone have a messed-up windshield?" A chorus of affirmatives.

"Huh! Okay. We don't know how much power there is that machine, but it may have a limit. Here's what do. First, we let the instruments carry us for a while. Second, we're eventually going to break our windshields so we can see out, so we'll be going the rest of the in closed suits. But we can't do that yet! Otherwise our faceplates will frost up. Third point." He glared round for emphasis, though nobody saw him. "Nobody outside for any reason! For all we know, that gun can peel our suits right off our backs in ten seconds. Any other suggestions?"

There were.

"Call Garner and ask him for ideas." Mabel Doolin in Two did that.

"Withdraw our radar antennae for a few hours. Otherwise they'll disappear." They did. The ships flew on, blind.

"We need something to tell us how far this gun has dug into our ships." But nobody could think of anything better than "Go look later."

Every minute someone tested the barrage with a piece of quartz. The barrage stopped fifteen minutes after it had started. Two minutes later it started again, and Tartov, who was out inspecting the damage, scrambled into his ship with his faceplate opaqued along the right side.

Kzanol looked up to see his «partner» climbing wearily down through the airlock. "Very good," he said. "Has it occurred to you that we may need the disintegrator to dig up the spacesuit?"

"Yeah, it has. That's why I didn't use it any longer than I did." In fact he'd quit because he was tired, but he knew Kzanol was right. Twenty-five minutes of a most continuous operation was a heavy drain on the battery. "I thought I could do them some damage. I don't know whether I did or not."

"Will you relax? If they get too close I'll take them get us some extra ships and body servants."

"I'm sure of that. But they don't have to get that close."

The gap between the Golden Circle and the Belt fleet closed slowly. They would reach Pluto at about the same time, eleven days after the honeymooner left Neptune.

"There she goes," said somebody.

"Right," said Lew. "Everyone ready to fire?"

Nobody answered. The flame of the honeymooner's drive stretched miles into space, a long, thin line of bluish white in a faint conical envelope. Slowly it began contract.

"Fire," said Lew, and pushed a red button. It had a tiny protective hatch over it, now unlocked. With a key.

Five missiles streaked away, dwindling match flames. The honeymooner's fire had contracted to a point.

Minutes passed. An hour. Two.

The radio beeped. "Garner calling. You haven't called. Hasn't anything happened yet?"

"No," said Lew into the separate maser mike. "They should have hit by now."

Minutes dragging by. The white star of the honeymoon special burned serenely.

"Then something's wrong." Garner's voice had crossed the light-minutes between him and the fleet. "Maybe the disintegrator burned off the radar antennae on your missiles."

"Son of a bitch! Sure, that's exactly what happened. Now what?"

Minutes.

"Our missiles are okay. If we can get close enough we can use them. But that gives them three days to find the Amplifier. Can you think of a way to hold them off for three days?"

"Yeah." Lew was grim. "I've an idea they won't be landing on Pluto." He gnawed his lip, wondering if he could avoid giving Garner this information. Well, it wasn't exactly top secret, and the Arm would probably find out anyway. "The Belt has made trips to Pluto, but we ever tried to land there. Not after the first ship took a close-up spectroscopic reading…"