"There are guided missiles which can seek and find targets thousands of miles away. They can be equipped with either fission or disintegrating war heads. Both go dead after a certain period; can't have a disintegrator bumping into some planet and blowing it sky high. For really high speed operations, guided missiles won't be much good, of course, except in a stern chance. Then we'll depend mainly on the mine fields we spread behind us. Come on. Might as well show you the stuff." He started down an odd companionway which had steps both on one wall and on the floor. Then he staggered and leaned heavily against a bulkhead. "Better go get that cursed nurse," he panted. "This burn...." Frank found Sadie in the hospital and hurried her toward the ship. "How long will the Old Man keep going?" he asked. "A month or so, if he's careful.... I hope the Patrol stalls a bit." "Then what?" He took a chance on patting her hand. "We may get our chance. The Second is a dope." "Have you made any contact with that Underground agent?" "Not a chance. Hans has spy rays rigged up everywhere." "Same here. Well, keep your funny chin up, Sadie.... There's your patient.... And try to get more rest; you look peaked." They found Hans walking blindly in a circle, gave him a sedative and helped him back to his room. Then they parted silently with a quick handclasp. * * * * * Frank went back to plotting orbits to every planet and satellite, as well as perfecting combat maneuvers. His math was rusty, so he spent long hours at his desk and found little time to make friendships with his shipmates to be. The other technicians were also a hardworking lot, far different from the roistering Big Shots who ran the planet. Hans had handpicked them and they were wise, ambitious and hard ... driven by a grim selfishness which made the astrogator quail. When, for self-protection, Sage aped their mannerisms and ways of thinking, he found himself growing as viciously efficient as a crouching tiger. The only real acquaintance he made, among that crowd of automatons, was the foppish son of an Argentine who had escaped from the debacle which struck his country during the Atomic War. His name was Carlos and he warmed slightly when he found that Frank had picked up his beloved ... and outmoded ... Spanish language while working on the Sahara project. Carlos was second in command and obviously dreamed of supplanting Hans. He was a complete egomaniac. But Frank could discern no outward disloyalty to Wildoatia.