"_Still the unity of Mankind was not secure, and Merril, filled with impatience for his great dream, decided on one final stroke. He would descend on Luna Base itself with his fleet, and commanding all Earth, he would drive men together--even though it might mean his own death. With this plan of self-immolation in his heart, the Peacemaker ordered his hosts and sought the pumice soil of the mother planet's moon...._" This is the way Quintus Bland, historian and scholar, puts it down for posterity. I, one of "his hosts," would say it another way. We had gutted the Solar System of its treasure and at last men were uniting against us. Our "fleet" was reduced to two small ships and a bare handful of men and women to fight them. Jaq Merril could see the handwriting on the wall and he knew that all must be gambled on one last throw of the dice. Only with Terra herself under our guns could we hope to continue sucking the juice of the worlds into our mouths. It was all or nothing, for we had grown used to our life and we could no longer change it to meet the demands of the dawning age of Soviet-American amity. * * * * * Side by side the _Arrow_ and the _Hound_ slanted sunward. Mars behind us, ahead lay the Earth-Moon system. Ten years had passed since any of us aboard the Compact ships had seen the home world, and though we no longer felt a part of it, the sight of the silvery cloud-flecked globe touched our hearts. Touched them as the sapphires of Mimas or the gold of Corfu touched them. We saw the planet that gave us birth and we were filled with hunger for it. To own it, command it, make it our own. Luna's mountains were white and stark under our keels as Merril led us across the curve of the southern horizon, seeking to put us into position to attack the UN Moon Base in Clavius from the direction of the Moon's hidden face. We swung low across unnamed mountain ranges and deep sheer valleys steeped in shadow. The voice of the ranger in the _Arrow_ came softly through the open intercom into the tiny control room of the _Hound_. A woman's voice, tense with excitement, but disciplined and controlled. "Range five hundred miles, four seventy five, four fifty--" And then Merril's voice, calm and reassuring, giving heart to all the untried ones aboard with his steady conning commands. "Four o'clock jet, easy, hold her. Drivers up one half standard. Steady goes. Meet her. Steady--" Line astern now, the two ships flashing low across the jagged lunar landscape, and a world in the balance-- An alarm bell ringing suddenly, and my screen showing the fleeting outline of a Russian monitor above, running across our stern. My own voice, sharp with command: "Gun pointer!" "Here, sir!" "Get me that gunboat."