“It is good. It’s got to be good. The unanswered question is that of whether it is good enough to take the beating of a long, long trip. The tubes are the weakest part of any spaceship. Sooner or later they burn out. That’s what bothers me. The tubes on this ship have very special linings. In theory they should last for months. In practice they might not. You know. what that means?”

“No repairs and no replacements in enemy territory, no means of getting back,” Leeming offered.

“Correct. And the vessel would have to be destroyed. From that moment the pilot, if still surviving, has isolated himself somewhere within the mists of Creation, His chance of seeing. humankind again is remote enough to verge on the impossible.”

“There could, be worse situations. I’d rather be alive someplace than stone-dead here. While there’s life there’s hope.”

“You still wish to go through with this?”

“Sure thing; sir:”

“Then upon your own head be it,” said Markham with grim humour. “Go along the corridor, seventh door on the right, report to Colonel Farmer. Tell him I sent you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And before you go try that damned zipper again.”

Obediently, Leeming tried it. The thing slid all the way as smoothly as if oiled. He stared at the other with a mixture of astonishment and injured innocence.

“I started in the ranks and I haven’t forgotten it,” said Markham, pointedly. “You can’t fool me.”

Colonel Farmer, of Military Intelligence, was a beefy, florid-faced character who looked slightly dumb but had a sharp mind. He was examining a huge star-map’ hung upon one wall when Leeming walked in. Farmer swung around as if expecting to be stabbed in the back.

“Haven’t you been taught to knock before you enter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I forgot, sir. My mind was occupied with the interview I’ve just had with Fleet-Admiral Markham.”