"Thank you, sir." He wondered why this vote of confidence did not comfort him. "I'm sorry for my blunder, sir. It was inexcusable." Hayes' words belied his expression. "A momentary lapse, nothing more." He placed a strange emphasis on 'lapse.' "You've been trained for high-speed craft, is that correct?" "Yes, sir," Janson said stiffly, maintaining with difficulty his rigid posture and straight-ahead gaze. It had been twelve years, but this was hardly the time..... "I want you to run a very special errand for me, Major. I want you to take some particularly sensitive data back to President Stone, and deliver it to him personally. I'm having a Clipper specially prepared. She'll fly mainly on auto-pilot, with extra speed built in. I need this material in the President's hands by July 16---he'll know you're coming. Do you think you can do it?" "Yes, sir. Of course, sir." But this was absurd. Bullet-pouches were three times faster, and with self-destruct, an infinitely better security risk. "Good, Major. That's what I wanted to hear. Report to Shuttle Dock 36 at 1400 sharp. You're to remain in your quarters till then, and speak of this to no one. I'll have the flight-suit brought to you there. The materials will be turned over to you by special courier aboard ships. Any questions?" Janson glanced at him quickly. There were no questions. "That will be all then, Major. Dismissed." Janson saluted and showed himself the door. As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Hayes turned to Calder. "You know what to do?" His second nodded sternly and went out. TOO BAD ABOUT THAT ONE, mused the Secretary briefly. THEY SAY HE HAD A FAMILY. Rising, he left the small conference room and moved with swift steps toward the Main Intercommunications studio to prepare his pre-battle address to the subcommanders. NO, ON SECOND THOUGHT I'D BETTER MAKE IT THE ENTIRE CREW. WE'VE GOT TO FIGHT LIKE THE THREE HUNDRED SPARTANS TOMORROW. And pleased with this metaphor, trying to think how to work it into his speech, he continued on his way. * Squadron-leader Dorfman was approaching his thirtieth hour in light-warp, and was less than sixteen hours away from his projected time of Intercept. His was one of only five missile-ships that remained on course and on target. There is a certain level of endurance beyond which even the strongest minds cannot go without some loss of rationality. Dorfman, a seasoned veteran, had been on tough, grueling missions before, but this---he could no longer deceive himself---was undoubtedly the cruelest.