"Your lordship, there is something you need to see. Perhaps on the bridge?"

The voice was that of Captain Kruts, the Meadowlands' master. "I'll be there momentarily," Quanshuk answered.

"Shall I notify Chief Scholar Qonits and Admiral Tualurog, your lordship?"

"At your discretion."

The admiral jabbed a key, then got stiffly to his feet, his arthritic joints complaining. He was medicated, always, but not so strongly as to banish pain. He was grand admiral, and would not risk dulling his mind.

At first, after getting up, he didn't walk well. He carried himself well-torso erect, long head high-but his steps were short and painful. Qonits caught up with him at the entry to the bridge, and they went in together.

Kruts was waiting for them, and pointed at the large screen centered in the monitor array on the bridge's forward bulkhead. It showed a compressed representation of the system, with the conventional armada icon, and other icons marking planets. Two others-flashing orange lights-marked detected sources of technical electronics.

Two sources. One was the second planet. The other was in the near fringe, its system azimuth 134 degrees from the armada's. Quanshuk stepped quickly to his admiral's station, and called for an enlarged view of the fringe source. Or cluster of sources, for that's how the monitor showed them. At nearly nine light-hours distance, there was no visual resolution. A sidebar numbered them, however: 230 individual sources-230 ships.

Quanshuk frowned. Two hundred thirty. Why were they here? They were far too few to do battle with him.

Then it struck him. Turning, he scanned the bridge crew. "An evacuation fleet," he said, then elaborated. "On most of the human worlds we've come to, much of the population had clearly been evacuated. Very probably we're looking at an evacuation fleet." He turned to his chief scholar. "Wouldn't you say, Qonits?"

"Indeed, my lord, that would explain them."

The chief scholar looked less than sure of it. But then, being skeptical was part of a scholar's job.

In the Provo force, an electronic bosun's pipe shrilled through the corridors and compartments of the Altai and every other manned ship. Followed by shipsvoice: "Now hear this! Now hear this! All hands report to mustering stations by 1022 hours. All hands to mustering stations by 1022 hours." Then the sequence repeated. Every hand knew; this was it: the time of truth. "All hands" calls were infrequent. To repeat it like this…

Ten-twenty-two; in ten minutes.

To top it off, after a few seconds music began to issue from the ships' speakers. Music! That was different. The admiralty had established "instant tradition" for its new fleet, including an "unofficial" fleet theme, dubbed "Spacing Off to Dilly Doo." Dilly Doo being a planet in a very old, off-color space tale-a sort of Valhalla where spacers supposedly went when they died, to binge and bawd. The recording-by the pipes and drums of the Caledonian Regimental Band-dated from before space flight. Its name then had been "Scotland the Brave," something few spacers were aware of.

By any name it was stirring. And when they'd finished "Dilly Doo," the Caledonians continued without a break, playing other martial music.

Meanwhile men in bunks swung their legs out, put feet on the deck, and went to the head to relieve themselves and splash cold water on their faces. Men in rec rooms shut off books and games, officers in wardrooms finished their coffee and rolls or set them aside. Something major was up, and no one on board had any doubt what it was.

Most mustering stations were messrooms. Personnel on duty could watch on their duty monitor. By 1022, every man and woman aboard every ship was in front of a screen; in sickbay perhaps a screen above the bed.

It was not the shipsvoice that spoke to them. They'd have been surprised if it was. It was the "old man" himself, the admiral. A close shot of him-chest, shoulders, head. Dark eyes dominating, jaw firm. "Men of the First Provos," he began. The thirty-one percent who were women took no offense. The term "men" as a neuter collective had been accepted for a long time.

"We have found the enemy. The Wyzhnyny armada arrived in this system at 1010 hours, only nine light-hours away."

The admiral's face was replaced by a representation of the Paraiso System, showing the relative positions of the two fleets, as icons.

"By now they have surely read our electronic signature, and are wondering what in the Tao this small fleet is doing here. Knowing that we will have read their emergence waves, they will expect us to flee. They will expect that nine hours hence, our electronics will disappear from their sensors."

The admiral's face replaced the schematic. "At 1030 hours we will generate warpspace-and at 1230 hours emerge within the fringe of their armada." He paused, then spoke more loudly and sharply. "And show them what humans can do in a fight! Especialy with our battle master."

His voice resumed its usual even delivery. "Each of you knows your role in this. Your duty; what you are to do. I expect your best. We will shock the invader; we will bleed him; we will make him wish he'd never left home."

Then he raised his arms in closing, and "Dilly Doo"-"Scotland the Brave"-returned to the corridors and compartments of the 1st Provos.

Except on the "maces." Maces had no crews. They had the dimensions of cruisers, but beamguns as powerful as those on battleships. Built to stand accelerations up to 100 gees, they could accelerate and decelerate at rates that humans, and presumably Wyzhnyny, could not remotely match. And they could fly high-speed evasion courses. Not extreme evasion courses, but courses that beamguns would have trouble getting locks on. At least beamguns on human warships.

"Flying guns" they'd been called. It would have been as accurate to call them flying generators, for those guns required great power. And more: the newer squadrons generated two-layered shields. Their interior design had been modified to accommodate not only larger power generators but larger shield generators.

As for their battle judgements and responses-the shipsminds aboard maces were second to none. And like every other Provo shipsmind, they'd been reprogrammed to respond to Charley Gordon's unique style of command.

Rear Admiral Tualurog had taken over the grand admiral's station on the bridge, allowing Quanshuk to return to bed. It was easy duty. Shipsmind could manage the re-forming of battle wings, and the even more numerous transport and supply ships. Cleansing the humans from the habitable world was the colonizing tribe's responsibility. The Grand Fleet remained briefly on standby, to lend support as necessary.

The tribe was already inbound in warpdrive, with its regiments of shock warriors, its divisions of non-warrior reservists, its integral ground support wing, and its own insystem defense force: a flotilla of cruisers and corvettes. The ground forces were supported by two bombards-massive ships designed solely for ground bombardment-assigned to the planetary guard flotilla. These would destroy defense installations and troop concentrations, if any. And all technical facilities and population centers. After that, ground-support "hunters" helped "beat the bushes," guided by surveillance buoys parked in near-space.

If the planet's defense forces turned out to be troublesome enough, the fleet could send down marines and additional ground support squadrons. But that was undesirable. It meant delaying the armada's departure.

As for possible human incursions from space-the departing armada would leave a pentagonal battle group in the fringe: five battleships with a screen of cruisers and corvettes, ready to move against any threat. While a planetary guard flotilla was left insystem, to guard against landings.