The wheelhouse was silent. The Captain could feel a dozen pairs of eyes watching him, waiting for his decision. Outside the ports, on the far horizon, there came a steady, golden pulsing. He looked up at McCandless and Davis. McCandless was young, too inexperienced to realize that situations where today's enemies are tomorrow's friends are the order of the day and not the exception. You adjusted to it or you became bitter. Davis, the gutless bastard, had adjusted to it. He was probably already to make the switch, to go back to drinking toasts in vodka. The detached viewpoint. "Send up the jets," the Captain said slowly. "And send a message to the Captain of the _Josef_, telling him we'll render all the assistance that we can." The wheelhouse broke into a flurry of activity and a moment later he could hear the sounds of the jets taking off the flight deck. He walked out on the bridge deck and leaned on the railing, staring at the horizon where the alien ship and the _Josef_ were fighting it out. And where planes from the _Oahu_ would shortly be helping the _Josef_. _But I still hate them_, he thought. _I hate their goddamned souls!_ Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Space Science Fiction_ September 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.