One Space Command laser pierced the _Silver Cloud_--a narrow but tight beam. The shaft of weaponlight punctured the crew’s living quarters, and air began to escape from the pirates’ spacecraft. Automatic seals quickly stopped the leak and Lather sped on. The exultation he had felt at having fired the final destructive bolt had instantly changed into a cold dread at his narrow escape. Followed by the other pirate ships, he sped on, back toward the great asteroid where Lurton Zimbardo awaited news of their successful mission. Commander Benjamin Bennett of the Space Command ship _Ignis_ sat motionless for ten minutes after the last freighter had blown up. He was a topflight career space pilot who governed one of the few standard Space Command Fleets of Twelve. His black hair showed no signs of gray. Because of his unspotted record and eminent trustworthiness, he had been given the responsibility for guarding the freighters. Usually looking much younger than his forty-one years, now he appeared much older. No one approached him. Then he spoke, as if into the air. “I suppose the pirates are gone now.” “So it would appear, sir,” said a crewman. “Obviously they weren’t concerned with destroying us--just the freighters. I suppose in the long run it amounts to the same thing, though.” No one responded. “Please raise headquarters and hand me the communicator.” A crew member complied. Commander Bennett took the communicator. His message was terse but complete: pirates had attacked the convoy and all seven freighters had been lost. Twelve minutes later the news came into Starlight Enterprise and was tranferred immediately to Richard Starlight, who was at work in his office. He finished listening to the message, then turned and looked out over the stark moonscape. Slowly, he smiled. * * * * * The next day, just after noon, Richard was again in his office. Joining him for lunch were John Rwakatare, Robert Nolan, Beowulf Denn, and Commander John Lewis and a few other visitors from Space Command. Though the food was delicious, the meal was a dismal affair. Long faces and few words expressed the atmosphere of the gathering. Richard, however, and Robert seemed not to share the gloom. Richard was an attentive host, carefully seeing to his guests’ needs. “A little more water, John?” he asked, offering the crystal decanter. “Could you please pass the biscuits, Robert? Thank you. Good, aren’t they?” “Yes, Rick, they are, especially for biscuits made on the Moon,” responded the head of NME. “Your chef is highly skilled.” Beowulf Denn couldn’t take it any more. “You seem awfully lighthearted about everything, Richard,” he said in a tone that verged almost on disrespect. Richard smiled but said nothing. When the lunch things had been cleared away, Richard spoke.