Enright snapped the "talk" button and said: "Enright to Commodore Hogan. Good morning, Commodore. I am not in distress. I am in more than fine shape and glad to be coming in. Please slip me the landing instructions so that I can kiss Mother Earth softly and gently and walk away from my ship, will you? Also will you please notify my parents that I am all in one healthy piece and that I will be seeing them as soon as I can? Enright over." Billy Enright spent the next forty seconds wondering what kind of a stew was going on down at Base. He made a mental bet that there were wires burning and tables being pounded. Commodore Hogan's voice came back. "Mojave to I.S.-1. You will land on Runway Nine. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. Wind Northeast at four miles. Barometer twenty-nine point seven. Traffic: Luna Three taking off, one Orbital Station Shuttle in flight pattern. All other traffic being held. You will land, Captain Enright, and then you will seal your spacecraft for investigation and inventory. You will not log in at Operations, but present yourself to the Officer of the Day to deliver your report and explanations. You will not converse with anyone or discuss your--ah, adventures, until you have been granted permission. Confirm this, Captain Enright. Hogan over." Billy grabbed the microphone and snapped, "Enright to Base. Look, Commodore, I confirm the landing instructions and will comply with the personal orders, but aren't you overlooking the fact that an experimental mission, undertaken with calculated risk, with success highly controversial, cannot be subject to strict timetable? You sound as though I'm being charged with awol." Enright pronounced the initial letters as a word. The reply came, as formal as before. "Mojave to Enright. There has been no formal charge of being absent without official leave logged against you, Captain Enright. All official action will be held in abeyance until your account has been reviewed by the Court of Inquiry, which will convene upon your arrival. Mojave Operations, Commodore Hogan in command, over and off!" Billy Enright grunted. Commodore Hogan was a boiled collar and if he wanted to play this game as though he had caught one of his men buzzing a State Capitol Building instead of being delayed on a mission across the galaxy by half-a-hundred light years, then he, Billy Enright, was more than willing to go along. * * * * * Enright set the interstellar spacecraft down on the runway without a bump and rode the brakes to a stop. With a resentful flourish he parked his hat at an angle on his skull, ironed his cheerful features into a mirthless stoneface, and left his ship. He sealed the spacelock carefully. Then he dropped to the concrete parking block and waited for the official spaceport car to come along the taxiway for him.