It was a flimsy camouflage for his exit, but the best he could think of.

Flandry re-entered the yacht and roused Chives. “Home,” he said. “Full acceleration. Or secondary drive, if you think you can handle it within the System in this clumsy gold-plated hulk.”

“Yes, sir. I can.”

At faster-than-light, he’d be at Terra in minutes, rather than hours. Excellent! It might actually be possible to arrange for Aycharaych’s completion.

More than half of Flandry hoped the attempt would fail.

It happened to be day over North America , where Vice Admiral Fenross had his offices. Not that that mattered; they were like as not to work around the clock in Intelligence, or else Flandry could have gotten his superior out of bed. He would, in fact, have preferred to do so.

As matters worked out, however, he created a satisfactory commotion. He saved an hour by having Chives dive the yacht illegally through all traffic lanes above Admiralty Center . With a coverall over his party clothes, he dove from the airlock and rode a grav repulsor down to the 40th flange of the Intelligence tower. While the yacht was being stopped by a sky monitor, Flandry was arguing with a marine on guard duty. He looked down the muzzle of a blaster and said: “You know me, sergeant. Let me by. Urgent.”

“I guess I do know your face, sir,” the marine answered. “But faces can be changed and nobody gets by me without a pass. Just stand there while I buzzes a patrol.”

Flandry considered making a jump for it. But the Imperial Marines were on to every trick of judo he knew. Hell take it, an hour wasted on identification—! Wait. Memory clicked into place. “You’re Mohandas Parkinson,” said Flandry. “You have four darling children, your wife is unreasonably monogamous, and you were playing Go at Madame Cepheid’s last month.”

Sergeant Parkinson’s gun wavered. “Fluh?” he said. Then, loudly. “I do’ know whatcher talking about!”

“Madame Cepheid’s Go board is twenty meters square,” said Flandry, “and the pieces are live girls. In the course of a game — Does that ring a bell, sergeant? I was there too, watching, and I’m sure your wife would be delighted to hear you are still capable of such truly epic—”

“Get on your way, you … blackmailer!” choked Parkinson. He gulped and added, “Sir.”

Captain Flandry grinned, patted him on his helmet, holstered his weapon for him, and went quickly inside.

Unlike most, Fenross had no beautiful receptionist in his outer office. A robovoice asked the newcomer’s business. “Hero,” he said blandly. The robot said Admiral Fenross was occupied with a most disturbing new development. Flandry said he was also, and got admission.

Hollow-cheeked and shaky, Fenross looked across his desk. His eyes were not too bloodshot to show a flick of hatred. “Oh,” he said. “You. Well, Captain, what interrupts your little tete-a-tete with your Merseian friends?”

Flandry sat down and took out a cigaret. He was not surprised that Fenross had set spies on him, but the fact was irritating nonetheless. Plow the devil did this feud ever get started? he wondered. Is it only that I took that girl … what was her name, anyway? Marjorie? Margaret? … was it only that I once took her from him when we were cadets together? Why, I did it for a joke. She wasn’t very good-looking in spite of everything biosculp could do.

“I’ve news too hot for any com circuit,” he said. “I just now—”

“You’re on furlough,” snapped Fenross. “You’ve got no business here.”

“What? Look, it was Aycharaych! Himself! At the Crystal Moon!”

A muscle twitched in Fenross’ cheek. “I can’t hear an unofficial report,” he said. “All ruin is exploding beyond Aldebaran. If you think you’ve done something brilliant, file an account in the regular channels.”

“But — for God’s sake!” Flandry sprang to his feet. “Admiral Fenross, sir, whatever the hell you want me to call you, he’s leaving the Solar System in a matter of hours. Courier boat. We can’t touch him in Ymirite space, but if we waylaid him on his way out — He’ll be tricky, the ambush might not work, but name of a little green pig, if we can get Aycharaych it’ll be better than destroying a Merseian fleet!”

Fenross reached out a hand which trembled ever so faintly, took a small pillbox and shook a tablet loose. “Haven’t slept in forty hours,” he muttered. “And you off on that yacht … I can’t take cognizance, Captain. Not under the circumstances.” He glanced up again. Slyness glistened in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, “if you want to cancel your own leave—”

Flandry stood a moment, rigid, staring at the desk-bound man who hated him. Memory trickled back: After I broke off with her, yes, the girl did go a bit wild. She was killed in an accident on Venus, wasn’t she … drunken party flying over the Saw … yes, I seem to’ve heard about it. And Fenross has never even looked at another woman.

He sighed. “Sir, I am reporting myself back on active duty.”

Fenross nodded. “File that with the robot as you leave. Now I’ve got work for you.”

“But Aycharaych—”

“We’ll handle him. I’ve got a more suitable assignment in mind.” Fenross grinned, tossed down his pill and followed it with a cup of water from the desk fountain. “After all, a dashing field agent ought to dash, don’t you think?”

Could it be just the fact that he’s gotten more rank but I’ve had more fun? wondered Flandry. Who knows? Does he himself? He sat down again, refusing to show expression.

Fenross drummed the desk top and stared at a blank wall. His uniform was as severe as regulations permitted — Flandry’s went in the opposite direction — but it still formed an unnecessarily gorgeous base for his tortured red head. “This is under the strictest secrecy,” he began in a rapid, toneless voice. “I have no idea how long we can suppress the news, though. One of our colonies is under siege. Deep within the Imperial sphere.”

Flandry was forced to whistle. “Where? Who?”

“Ever heard of Vixen? Well, I never had either before this. It’s a human-settled planet of an F6 star about a hundred light-years from Sol, somewhat north and clockwise of Aldebaran. Oddball world, but moderately successful as colonies go. You know that region is poor in systems of interest to humans, and very little explored. In effect, Vixen sits in the middle of a desert. Or does it? You’ll wonder when I tell you that a space fleet appeared several weeks ago and demanded that it yield to occupation. The ships were of exotic type, and the race crewing them can’t be identified. But some, at least, spoke pretty good Anglic.”

Flandry sat dead still. His mind threw up facts, so familiar as to be ridiculous, and yet they must now be considered again. The thing which had happened was without precedent.

An interstellar domain can have no definite borders; stars are scattered too thinly, their types too intermingled. And there are too many of them. In very crude approximation, the Terrestrial Empire was a sphere of some 400 light-years diameter, centered on Sol, and contained an estimated four million stars. But of these less than half had even been visited. A bare 100,000 were directly concerned with the Imperium, a few multiples of that number might have some shadowy contact and owe a theoretical allegiance. Consider a single planet; realize that it is a world, as big and varied and strange as this Terra ever was, with as many conflicting elements of race and language and culture among its natives; estimate how much government even one planet requires, and see how quickly a reign over many becomes impossibly huge. Then consider, too, how small a percentage of stars are of any use to a given species (too hot, too cold, too turbulent, too many companions) and, of those, how few will have even one planet where that species is reasonably safe. The Empire becomes tenuous indeed. And its inconceivable extent is still the merest speck in one outlying part of one spiral arm of one galaxy; among a hundred billion or more great suns, those known to any single world are the barest, tiniest handful.