He smiled grimly to himself. The garrison could not hold out much longer. They had no food, and the ring of guerillas surrounding the ship like a tight net would see that they got no food. It had been a long wait--but soon they would struggle out, begging for food and water, leaving the ship standing alone-- To be wrecked, and ripped, and torn into a thousand bitter pieces-- A soldier suddenly appeared in a spotlight inside the huge fence gate, rifle half-raised in his hands. He let out a shout and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. "Halt!" The jeep's tires screeched. Then Loevy raised the flag again and waved it. "Truce," he called out. "We're unarmed." "What do you want?" "We want to talk to the Bulldog." There was a long pause as a conference was held back in the shadows. Someone in the darkness ran out to join the gate guard. Then there was a grating sound as the lock on the gate snapped open. The gate swung out as five more soldiers encircled it from within, rifles cocked and ready. "Leave the jeep outside. Come in with your hands raised." Slowly Matt and Loevy climbed out and walked forward. The soldiers looked weary, their clothes filthy, their eyes bright with hate. They watched the men as they walked in, and then closed around them, herding them across to a long, low building. Lights went on, and Matt could see the dim interior of a disused day room, the walls piled high with supply cartons. "You wait," said one of the soldiers. "I'll see if the Colonel wants to see you." He watched them carefully until the gate clanged shut. Then he nodded to another guard, and disappeared into the darkness. * * * * * They did not wait long. The door burst open, and a short, squat, grey-haired man strode into the room. Dressed in a T shirt and OD pants, he was not an imposing figure, but there was no mistaking the heavy shock of grey hair, the solid, sour set of the mouth, the wideset eyes. The Bulldog of White Sands, they had called him. The man in charge of administration of three Rocket Projects, the man who had sworn that space would never defeat him. He glared at Matthews for a moment, and then his glance shifted to Loevy, and his eyes widened. "Well," he said sourly. "I hardly expected to see _you_ joining up with these pigs." Loevy's eyes flickered in a tired smile. "So you remember me," he said. "I never forget a face." The Colonel stared at him with a stony expression for a moment. "White Sands, April of 1993--two and a half years ago, almost. Just after the third ship blew up. Name is--umm--Loevy--" Loevy nodded. "That's right." The Colonel's eyes hardened. "You were with a crowd that was trying to talk the government into junking the Rocket projects--right?" "That's right. We predicted the impending crash even then--" "Hogwash," said the Colonel. "A lot of statistical blather."