Free of the obliterating sea of sun static, Sy threw open all detection and reception circuits and flung his detector field to its farthest reaches, dimming its accuracy but increasing its range. Immediately he stared in consternation at the activity in the three-dimensional depths of his screen. "Arna!" he called hoarsely. "Arna!" The girl ran clinkingly to him on jointed shoe-plates. "We're damn near too late," he groaned. "Look, the fleets are approaching each other!" The tiny red screen dot which indicated their position showed them to be on a course that would slice directly between both fleets. Sy leaped from the throne and fairly threw Arna into its confines. He braced his metal-shod feet on the deck and seized a ring cleat beside the control panel. "Steady as you go!" he gritted. "This is it--and we've got to make it!" "Sy! Can you control the gadgets from this distance?" "Yeah--but we've got to stay in planetary range. _Don't leave the Pronuleon system._" His fingers sped along a row of knobs. "I've got to call our fleet." "Contact the fleet _now_? But Sy--" "Quiet, honey!" He glanced at her once, quickly. "I rigged those gadgets like I intended to." "_Sy!_" It was almost a scream. "What have you--" "Shut up!" he snapped. "And that's an order!" Ignoring secrecy, code and even special wavelength, he signaled the League flagship on an open channel. He arranged a three-way video hook-up between the _Needle_, Admiral Grimes on the _Forward Star_ and Dr. Horace Wilton on the _Mars Moon_. "No time," he ground out. "Operation set up as scheduled--_but you won't have to fire_. In five minutes all enemy crews will be flat under eight G's; when ships stop, grapple and board. Out!" He broke contact and turned to Arna. "Skitter and spit dust--use it all, but keep us clear for three minutes!" He locked both hands on the cleat and closed his eyes in concentration. * * * * * In the deep recesses of his mind, he created a clear picture of a typical, prototype butterfly gimmick. He imagined it in the approximate position it would be to keep a ship spinning slowly on its longitudinal axis--to exert the mild centrifugal force permitted for battle alert and preliminary maneuver. Then he _willed_ the little wings to bend downward--slowly--past the null-G setting--to fold--down ... to kiss ... to _close_.... After a seeming century, and from a great distance, Arna's voice reached him, dragged him up from autohypnotic depths. "Sy! Sy! They've stopped firing! The League's closing in! Sy!" He straightened, relaxed his bloodless grip on the cleat, drew a deep, shuddering breath, shook his head to clear it. Throbbing pains began to course from his arms and shoulders, where they had been buffeted against the panel housing during Arna's wild, skillful gyrations. He looked at the screen, adjusted it for close range.