"It is, and you don't. Here is a semantic chart of the whole directive. As you will note, it overrides many Navy regulations. Disobedience of my orders constitutes mutiny and I can--and will--have you put in irons and sent back to Terra for court-martial. Now let's go back." In the control room, Hilton said, "The target has a mass of approximately five hundred metric tons. There is also a significant amount of radiation characteristic of uranexite. You will please execute search, Captain Sawtelle." And Captain Sawtelle ordered the search. "What did you do to the big jerk, boss?" Sandra whispered. "What you and Bill suggested," Hilton whispered back. "Thanks to your analysis of the directive--pure gobbledygook if there ever was any--I could. Mighty good job, Sandy." * * * * * Ten or fifteen more minutes passed. Then: "Here's the source of radiation, sir," a searchman reported. "It's a point source, though, not an object at this range." "And here's the artifact, sir," Pilot Snowden said. "We're coming up on it fast. But ... but what's a _skyscraper_ skeleton doing out here in interstellar space?" As they closed up, everyone could see that the thing did indeed look like the metallic skeleton of a great building. It was a huge cube, measuring well over a hundred yards along each edge. And it was empty. "_That's_ one for the book," Sawtelle said. "And how!" Hilton agreed. "I'll take a boat ... no, suits would be better. Karns, Yarborough, get Techs Leeds and Miller and suit up." "You'll need a boat escort," Sawtelle said. "Mr. Ashley, execute escort Landing Craft One, Two, and Three." The three landing craft approached that enigmatic lattice-work of structural steel and stopped. Five grotesquely armored figures wafted themselves forward on pencils of force. Their leader, whose suit bore the number "14", reached a mammoth girder and worked his way along it up to a peculiar-looking bulge. The whole immense structure vanished, leaving men and boats in empty space. Sawtelle gasped. "Snowden! Are you holding 'em?" "No, sir. Faster than light; hyperspace, sir." "Mr. Ashby, did you have your interspace rigs set?" "No, sir. I didn't think of it, sir." "Doctor Cummings, why weren't yours out?" "I didn't think of such a thing, either--any more than you did," Sandra said. Ashby, the Communications Officer, had been working the radio. "No reply from anyone, sir," he reported. "Oh, no!" Sandra exclaimed. Then, "But look! They're firing pistols--especially the one wearing number fourteen--but _pistols_?" "Recoil pistols--sixty-threes--for emergency use in case of power failure," Ashby explained. "That's it ... but I can't see why _all_ their power went out at once. But Fourteen--that's Hilton--is really doing a job with that sixty-three. He'll be here in a couple of minutes."