Rymer Camari, President of the United Inner Planetary System entered his official residence's conference room in a brisk walk, a loose, gray ankle-length robe draped about his thin shoulders. He nodded perfunctory greetings to his Ministers of Intelligence and Diplomatic Protocols, and to the Commander of the UIPS Space Forces as he took his seat at the head of the long table. An abundant mane of white hair framed his aged features; his stony glare reflected the rage they shared. A panel in the wall slid upward to reveal a two-meter square well. A cylindrical view tank filled its available space. The tank cleared to the United Inner Planetary System's standard simulation. Colored and geometric symbols glowed the real time positions of UIPS planets and their natural and artificial satellites and outposts, schema of space traffic lanes, space spunnel booster stations, the Asteroids, and the twenty Guardian Stations equidistant along the Asteroids' outer perimeter. Stroking a key embedded nearby in the table the President brought the Strategic Concepts Computer on line. "Computer," he said, "integrate these proceedings into the database. Follow, analyze in depth across-the-board and display." Turning to the Space Force Commander he said, "What's the situation, Jim?" His voice was flat with the effort to control his anger. Admiral Jim Selvin, shifted his stocky torso about to ease his discomfort. Battle-flinty eyes cast a quick baleful glance at his colleagues and turned to face the President. Thin lips, slashed across his rough-hewn face, twisted as he spoke. "There's little to add to what we had an hour ago," he said. "Two good pilots dead; two impossible-to-replace patrollers destroyed." Rubbing his chin vigorously, he grated, "We confirmed that the bandit beamer drew back into an underground tunnel that cuts into an ice gorge south of Coldfield. Their weapons' cache is even now being approached by unidentified tugs. No doubt that they're Narval's thugs and they're going to clamp a tow beam on the stores and haul them off to some subsurface storage or assembly shop. Once the weapons are assembled, installed and calibrated we could be on the receiving end of more nastiness." Leaning forward over the table, he looked directly at the President. His hand transformed into a fist, and he pounded the table in cadence with his words. "Mr. President," he said, "the real hell of it is we can't stop them, and we've got no one to blame but ourselves. It's downright unrealistic to keep our self-defense forces in the Special Zone so far below what's needed to protect our vital interests." "What do you suggest, Jim," the President shrugged, "break our treaties with the Outer Region? What'll that get us?" Jim looked directly into the President's eyes. "But they're the ones violating the treaties," he growled. "If we've ever needed irrefutable evidence, we've just had it rammed down our throats. We'd better get off our duffs and do something."