"What kind of animal are you?" snapped Itjes. He now saw, beyond all doubt, that he was dealing with a madman. The written notes, read by a young voice without malice or understanding, had sent a chill straight through him. They reminded him strangely, uncannily, of the techniques employed by Adolph Eichmann and the Hitler S.S. ... "The one who's going to see you in Hell." "I will attack when the Dresden detachment joins us. Then God HELP you." "You have twelve hours, Helmut." "My name is ITJES!" The screen went blank. * * * The Coalition First Combat Fleet, both detachments, stood fast at a safe distance from the hornet's nest that surrounded Schiller, and formed into a single front to face them. Itjes stood among his officers and technicians on the bridge of the carrier 'Smolensk', staring at the blank communications screen. Five minutes before he had told Hayes flatly that there would be no engagement without his recordable promise---both visual and vocal---of the free evacuation of the planet, regardless of the outcome of the battle. This helpless waiting, for a reply so paramount, and yet so utterly beyond his control, was an agony of the human spirit. The request was perfectly reasonable, and Hayes had every intention of granting it. He merely wanted the extra time to study his opponent's weaponry and deployment. There was something to be learned even from the loser of a given confrontation, and Itjes had the reputation of being a tough and resourceful foe. So he watched, and made mental notes: two-hundred and sixty lesser craft against his three-hundred deployed, and the superior guns of the Dreadnought. This should teach his boys to fight. The Commonwealth forces began to move forward. Hayes appeared on the screen, flanked by Admiral Frank. "You have your promise, General. Win or lose, utterly, and the population goes free." Utterly. Itjes bit his lip till it bled, ordered his forces to attack. * The main battle went much the same as the skirmish which had preceded it. The Coalition's flyers were, on the whole more experienced, more disciplined, in some ways better trained; and for a time they did fairly well. They kept their forces together, found cracks in the fences of their enemies, and were able to weed out and destroy the greener of the American combatants. But soon the blows were raining hard and heavy upon them, and coming from every direction at once. Squadrons and formations were broken up, strategies broken down. And after a time, good and lesser soldiers alike, veterans and younger men, husbands, heroes and cowards, were killed by shots that did not discriminate. No magical God-force protected the just and perseverant; no hand of Providence reached down. Men and women died, adding their silent numbers to the ancient mass of corpses piled in an endless grave in the name of War, because men had not yet learned that name was foul.