“I will.”

“Immediately you are satisfied that you have gained the measure of the enemy’s depth you will return as quickly as possible. You must get the ship back here if it can be done. If for any reason you cannot return, the ship must be converted into scrap. No abandoning it in free space, no dumping it into an ocean or anything like that. The ship must be destroyed. Markham has emphasised this, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. We’re giving you forty-eight hours in which to clear up your personal affairs. After that, you will report to Number Ten Spaceport.” Farmer held out his hand. I Wish you all the luck you can get.”

“Thinking I’ll need it?” Leeming grinned and went on, “You’re laying very heavy odds against ever seeing me again. It’s written across your face. I’ll be back-want to bet on it?”

“No,” said Farmer. “I never gamble because I’m a bad loser. But if and when you do return I’ll tuck you into bed With my own two hands.”

“That’s a promise,” warned Leeming.

He went to his tiny room, found another fellow already in occupation. This character eyed him with faint embarrassment.

“You Leeming?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Davies, Jack Davies.”

“Glad to know you.” Grabbing his bags, Leeming started packing them, stuffing away with careless haste shirts, collars and handkerchiefs.

Sitting on the bed, Davies informed, “They told me to take over your room. They said you’d be leaving today.”

“Correct.”

“Going far?”

“Don’t know for certain. It might be too far.”

“Are you pleased to go?”

“Sure am,” Leeming enthused.

“Can’t say I blame you.” Davies ruminated a moment in glum silence; went on, “I arrived a couple of hours ago and reported to the Base C.O. An autocratic type if ever I saw one.” He gave a brief, unflattering description of Commodore Keen. “I don’t know his name.”