"Is there any other possibility?" Roysland wanted to know. The commander nodded. "One--if the Enlissa were lucky, that is. If the enemy ship could have approached the convoy by coming in directly from a star, the subetheric radiation from the sun behind them would blank out their own radiation, and they could get in pretty close before they registered on a screen. "But in order to do that, they'd have to know the convoy's course and lie in wait for it. If they actually did use a star to hide themselves, it was probably pure luck on their part that they happened to be in the right place at the right time." Roysland nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed in thought. "I wonder--" he said finally. "Would you do me a favor, commander? Would you check and see if that cruiser actually fired towards a sun? That might give us some information." "I'll check," Allerdyce said. "It'll be on the recorders. I'll let you know what I come up with." "Fine," said Roysland. "I'll see you later." He cut off, and his image disintegrated. Roysland looked at the dark, blurred reflection of his face in the black plastic of his desk for a moment, then grinned. "All right, buster," he said to the face in the desk, "you're stuck for a while, anyway. Time to call in some help." He touched a switch plate on his desk panel and said: "Call a meeting of the Special Weapons Staff at my home at twenty-nine hundred hours." He touched another plate and said: "As soon as the report from the general director comes in, have it transferred to my home." And another: "Send all data to date on the enemy's latest weapon to my home. Code it _Mindjammer_." Then he got up, shut off his desk, and went out. An early meal was on the agenda, it seemed. Blackpool's Restaurant was, as usual, well populated, but not over-crowded. Roysland managed to find a table in the rear, where he sat down and ordered a tall glass of fruit juice. He liked Blackpool's; its old-fashioned, almost primitive atmosphere was impressive without being phony. The waiters--remote-control humanoids guided by the vast robot brain in the basement--were dressed in the fluffy, bright, fluorescent clothing of a style that had been worn two centuries before, when Blackpool's had been built. The uniforms had never changed. Roysland consulted the menu, told the waiter what he wanted, and went back to his fruit juice. "Roysland? Mind if I pull in?" Roysland looked up at the short, round-faced, smiling man standing by the table. "Not at all Osteban; sit down." Roysland didn't particularly want to talk to him then, but it wouldn't do to offend the Galactic News Service. Roysland waved the man to a seat and asked him if he wanted a drink. Osteban eyed his host's drink. "What are you drinking? Want to let me taste it?" He took the glass, sipped at it, and made a wry face. "F'revvinsake! Mind if I have something with life in it?"