As he entered I.C., the Ships Supply Officer reported all ships fully loaded and fueled with gamma-matter, ready for flight. The Missile Officer reported all ships equipped with war-head missiles. The Lock Officer reported all locks manned and ready. Base Q was ready. As he climbed to his chair over the plotting tank, he noted with satisfaction the controlled tautness of the men's faces. They too, were ready. As the glowing points of yellow light that represented the enemy fleet crossed the dimly lit sphere in the tank that indicated the one hundred thousand mile radius marking the edge of the primary zone, he took a microphone from a man waiting, nearby. "Base Q to unknown fleet. I have you bearing four one dash one seven. Range one oh oh. Identify yourself. Identify yourself. Over." His words were spaced out with painful clarity. A hush had fallen over I.C. The loud-speaker on the wall came to life with a squawk, after a few seconds. "Fleet Four to Base Q. This is Fleet Four, operating under orders from the Jupiterian Combine. Over." "Base Q to Fleet Four. According to the Treaty of Porran, space within a radius of one hundred thousand miles of Base Q has been designated a primary defense zone of the Federation. I therefore order you to leave this zone within one hour. Failure to comply will make you liable to full action on our part. I have the time, now, as one three four seven. You have until one four four seven to comply. I further warn you that an approach within twenty thousand miles will make you liable to immediate action, regardless of time. Over." The men in the room stared, open-mouthed. All had dreamed of hearing these words spoken in these tones to the Combine. A cheer might have been given, had it not been for discipline. In a few seconds, the loud-speaker squawked again. "Fleet Four to Base Q. Our orders are to assume a position at twenty-five thousand miles radius pending renegotiation of the Treaty of Porran. I suggest you contact your headquarters before doing anything rash. Over." The Commander sat with a smile on his lips. Quietly he handed the microphone back to the radioman. In a minute, the loud-speaker squawked, again. "Fleet Four to Base Q. Did you receive my last transmission? Acknowledge, please. Over." The radioman looked at the Commander, questioningly, but he only shook his head. "Can't you turn that damn squawk-box off? It's distracting." As the minutes crept by, the bright dots in the tank moved closer. The Commander took the Public Address microphone.