“Maybe I am,” gave back Wolf, blank-faced, “but I don’t think so.”

“You want me to do something?”

“Yes.”

“Something extra-special?”

“Yes.”

“At risk of death?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And for no reward?”

“Correct”

Mowry stood up, reached for his hat. “I’m not crazy either.”

“You will be,” said Wolf, in the same flat tones, “if you rest content to let the Sirians kick us out of existence.”

Letting go the hat, Mowry sat down again. “What d’you mean?”

“There’s a war on.”

“I know. Everybody knows.” He made a disparaging gesture. “We’ve been fighting the Sirian Combine for ten months. The newspapers say so. The radio says so. The video says so. The government says so. I am credulous enough to believe the lot of them.”

“Then perhaps you’re willing to stretch your credulity a bit further and swallow a few more items,” Wolf suggested.

“Such as?”

“The Terran public is complacent because to date nothing has happened in this sector. They know that already the enemy has launched two determined attacks against our solar system and that both have been beaten off. The public has great confidence in Terran defences. That confidence is justified; no Sirian task force will ever penetrate this far.”

“Well, what have we to worry about?”

“Wars must be won or lost and there’s no third alternative. We cannot win merely by keeping the foe at arm’s length. We can never gain victory solely by postponing defeat.” Suddenly and emphatically he slammed a heavy fist on his desk and made a pen leap two feet into the air. “We’ve got to do more than that. We’ve got to seize the initiative and get the enemy fiat on his back while we beat the bejazus out of him.”