"Norby doesn't know how he does it, Admiral, and he doesn't remember an alien ship."

"He doesn't have to know or remember. My scientists at the Space Command could analyze his workings down to subatomic levels…"

"No"' said Jeff. "No-sir! I won't allow it. Norby is my property." He shoved both hands through his curly brown hair.

The phone rang with the family call signal.

Relieved at the interruption, Jeff said, "Wells answering."

The screen lit up to show Farley Gordon Wells-twenty-four-years-old, athletically wiry, a little taller than Jeff, his eyes blue, his hair wavy and dark. Behind Fargo was a strikingly attractive girl in a Manhattan police uniform. She was beautiful, and she looked happy in a way (it seemed to Jeff) that most women looked when they were around Fargo.

"Hello, kid monster," said Fargo. "I'm still at the precinct. I'm afraid I'll be late."

"Hello, geriatrics case," said Jeff. "You always are."

"Albany's fault. Her professional responsibilities required her to foil a holdup with some high-powered karate, which made it necessary for her to change uniforms and…" Fargo's eyebrows suddenly elevated. "Is that Admiral Yobo behind you? What have I done?"

"Probably a great deal," said Yobo, "but nothing I'm aware of at the moment. This is a social call. Space home life gets boring, even in a spome as big as Space Command. Don't you remember my suggesting dinner when I was in New York for meetings?"

Fargo's eyebrows came down and closed together, "Is this the week you're having meetings in Manhattan? When I'm in love?"

"Just for this week?" asked Albany, her beautiful eyes crinkling.

"Bring some TGAF candy with you when you come, Fargo," said Jeff.

"Sure," said Fargo, with a grin. "You'd better start dinner without us, though I won't be expecting too much left over with the Admiral there."

The phone shut off.

"TGAF," said Jeff, "is our private family code. It stands for 'The Game's A-Foot'. It means trouble so Fargo understands that you're here on business, not a social call."

Yobo sighed, and sat down at the table. "I know that private family code of yours. I wish you had one that indicates big trouble, because your romantic brother believes he can always talk himself out of danger, and we may need more than talk this time."

"Are we going to need weapons?" asked Jeff.

"I'm not sure, but we had better be ready. I don't know when or where-or even, if-the Inventors Union is likely to strike, but we've got to prepare for the worst." The admiral stopped talking and sniffed. "You're letting the chicken dry out," he said.

"Norby," called Jeff, "serve the chicken!"

There was no answer and Jeff flung open the bedroom door. "That crazy barrel has gone again!"

"Taken off into hyperspace?" asked Yobo.

"He must have. I hurt his feelings-or maybe he needed to refuel. That's where he does it. What are we going to do?"

"About Norby? Nothing. The chicken comes first," said Yobo, heading for the kitchen.

During dinner, Jeff managed to make his way through half a drumstick with an almost total lack of appetite as he waited for Norby to return. Finally he said, "Sir, I'm afraid that Norby may have overheard you. He's a pretty brave robot, but he does have this prejudice against being taken apart, and he may have gone into hyperspace to save himself. I can't communicate with him when he's there, and he's supposed to tell me when he's going."

"Indeed?" said Yobo, who had already demolished his drumstick and a mountain of mashed potatoes and was slicing himself a helping of white meat. "Since there's nothing we can do about it, let's finish dinner. I'm sure he'll come back because it will get lonely out there after a while." Admiral Yobo attacked the chicken again. Between bites he said, "But see here. Everyone knows about Norby's personal antigrav. But only you and your brother and I know about Norby's secret ability to enter hyperspace with his built-in hyperdrive mechanism. If the greedy Inventors Union finds out about his hyperdrive, added to his miniantigrav, they'll tear the solar system apart to get it."

"Fargo thinks Norby's ability to travel in hyperspace is related to his miniantigrav," Jeff said. "So it's all one secret talent of Norby's."

"What Fargo thinks doesn't mean a thing. The only way to keep the Inventors Union away from Norby is to arrange to have my own scientists…"

"Please, sir-"

"Cadet," thundered Yobo, "you know that eventually someone has to examine Norby, and it might as well be my scientists. He's too valuable to be just the pet robot of a boy."

Jeff stared at the admiral in horror. He's the enemy, too, he thought to himself. What do I do?

There was no time to wonder if any answer to that question existed because at that moment there was a loud thump in the bedroom.

"Norby?" asked Jeff, getting up from his chair. He felt a wash of relief sweep over him at the thought that his robot might be back. Yet a feeling of fear came almost immediately afterward at the thought of what Yobo might do.

Following the thump, however, there was a more complicated noise, a very strange one. Strange, that is, to be heard in an apartment in the sovereign nation of Manhattan, USA sector of the Terran Federation.

"Jeff, that was a rather disturbing growl," Yobo said. "Have you got an animal in there? It sounded like a large one."

"Not that I know of, sir…Norby!"

A small barrel shot out of the bedroom into Jeff's outstretched arms. Norby's hat tilted back and a pair of wide-open eyes looked up.

"It's not my fault!" said Norby.

Jeff's lips tightened. Norby said that frequently, and usually, it wasn't true.

Something followed Norby into the living room. It was sand-colored. It looked hungry. And it had the beginnings of a mane.

"Space and time!" said Yobo, in a husky whisper, "it's a lion. I've been meaning to get around to visiting the Africa of my ancestors, but I have no great desire to have this portion of it visit me."

"Norby, what have you done?" Jeff asked, scarcely able to force the words out.

The lion advanced slowly into the room.

"It's only a small lion," said Norby plaintively. "Just a cub."

"A cub, my foot!" said Jeff, who was clutching Norby and backing toward the kitchen door. "It's almost full-grown and you know it. Where did you get it?"

"In a sort of zoo," said Norby. "It jumped on me and came with me when I went into hyperspace to get home. It wasn't my fault. It followed me."

Admiral Yobo grunted and stood up. Slowly, majestically, he picked up the chair on which he had been sitting and held it in front of him, the legs pointing at the advancing lion. He moved around the table until he was standing in front of Jeff, shielding him.

The lion roared, and Yobo brandished the chair menacingly. The lion snarled and lifted one broad paw.

Norby's hat slammed down until his head had disappeared inside the barrel. His arms and legs sucked inward as well, so that only the metal barrel remained in view.

"Coward," muttered Jeff, but he might have been talking to himself. He was ashamed that he was not defending his own admiral as a space cadet should, instead of vice versa.

The lion's uplifted paw showed its claws as he hit out at the chair leg.

"Get back, you fatuous feline," shouted Yobo, stamping his foot as he pushed the chair forward.

"What zoo?" Jeff asked Norby as the lion began to alternately growl and roar.

"Not a nice one," came the words through the hat. "Very bad."

"I can see that," said Jeff. "The lion looks underfed."

"Cadet!" roared Yobo, louder and deeper than the lion. "Stop practicing the fine art of conversation by making diagnostic comments. Do something. Get into the kitchen and send for help. My ancestors might have battled lions, but not while wearing dress uniforms. I don't plan to get down to hand-to-paw wrestling with this beast. It looks as though it might have fleas."