“Did he send you to me?”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh, so you’re the long-range reconnaissance pilot, eh? I don’t suppose Commodore Keen will be sorry to see you go. You’ve been somewhat of a thorn in his side, haven’t you?”

“No, sir,” denied Leeming. “I have been a pain in his. seat-every time he’s tried to sit on me.”

“In the armed forces one must get used to that sort of thing.”

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t agree. One joins the forces to help win a war and for no other purpose. I am not a juvenile delinquent called up for reformation by the Commodore or by anyone else.”

“He’d differ from you there. He’s a stickler for discipline.” Farmer let go a chuckle at some secret joke, added, “Keen by name and keen by nature.” He contemplated the other a short while, went on more soberly, “You’ve picked yourself a tough job.”

“That doesn’t worry me,” Leeming assured. “Birth, marriage and death are tough jobs.”

“You might never come back.”

“Makes little difference. Eventually we’ll all take a ride from which we’ll never come back.”

“Well, you needn’t mention it with such ghoulish satisfaction,” Farmer complained. “Are you married?”

“No, sir. Whenever I get the urge I just lie down quietly until the feeling passes off.”

Farmer eyed the ceiling and said, “God!”

“What else do you expect?” asked Leeming, displaying slight aggressiveness. “A scout-pilot operates single-handed. He’s like a bug in a metal can and has to learn to dispense with a lot of things; especially companionship. It’s surprising how much one can do without if one really tries.”

“I’m sure,” soothed Farmer. He gestured toward the starmap. “On that the nearest points of light are arrayed across the enemy’s front. The mist of stars behind them are unknown territory. The Combine may be far weaker than we think because its front is wafer-thin. Or it may be more powerful because its authority stretches far to the rear. The only way to find out exactly what we’re up against is to effect a deep penetration through the enemy’s spatial lines.”