"All right, I want ten of your people with technical research rates. Leave them with Dobermann and Carruthers. Issue return orders to your T-M, and then get these units out of here and digging up what we came after." "But--yes sir." Dobermann and Carruthers were at the lip, climbing out of their buckets. There was a puzzled look, even on Dobermann's usually taciturn face. "You two," Joel snapped, "will have a crew of researchers. Ten men. Take twenty-four hours and scrape the insides of this thing. Carruthers will report directly to me when you're finished. Dobermann, you'll nail K'hall-i-k'hall to a wall somewhere and don't let him down until you find out what became of whoever flew this tank." He turned and walked away before anyone could protest. * * * * * Captain Nicholas Joel drained the flagon. He looked again at the faded image in the small, rectangular frame, finally returned it to the breast pocket of his tunic. Then he looked up across the mahogany desk at Carruthers and Dobermann. "So," he said slowly, "so he told you he didn't know, did he?" "Yes, Captain, that is what he told me. He was surprised about the space ship. He called the others in. There was the same reaction. They--" Joel leaped to his feet. "Don't give me that!" he thundered. He grabbed at the bottle of Bond; spilled it as he poured. "You _know_ he knows!" "Captain, I was quite convinced." "Quite convinced, quite convinced, were you.... All right, Dobermann, get out of here. You find out anything, let me know. Sam, I want to talk to you. Go on Dobermann, _git_!" Joel slumped back behind the desk as his first officer pivoted, left. He tried a swallow from the flagon; fumbled at his tunic pocket for the small frame, extracted it; looked at it again. Then put it back a second time. Carruthers sat down opposite him. "You going to talk to me, Nicholas, or pass out before you get the chance?" "All right, Sam." Joel got up, put the Bond back in its cabinet; emptied the flagon and put it in too. "I get your point. Only you listen. The crew of that ship was deliberately murdered. Cold-bloodedly murdered, and it isn't going to happen to us." "I see." The ship's surgeon eyed the tips of his fingernails, then slowly looked up into Joel's red, swollen face. "Naturally, there wouldn't be any bodies around to prove your theory, would there, Skipper? And no signs of struggle. We didn't see any. Of course, their guns _were_ racked up pretty neatly--But it's all there in the report--" he waved a slender hand toward a roll of tape on the desk. "Never mind your sarcastic technicalities! They were--" "Nicholas, sit down. And listen." "All right. But I _don't_ get your point! And I don't want any of your double-talk! The trouble with you guys--"