They were out of their seats, shouting. Bort was waving his fist. There was a light froth at the corner of his lips.

Physically, there was nothing they could do. Fife smiled. Each was a continent away. He could sit behind his desk and watch them foam.

He said, "You have no choice. In the year since our first conference, I, too, have made my preparations. While you four have been quietly in conference, listening to me, officers loyal to myself have taken charge of the Navy."

"Treason!" they howled.

"Treason to continental autonomy," retorted Fife. "Loyalty to Sark."

Steen's fingers intertwined nervously, their ruddy, copper tips the only splash of color upon his skin. "But it's X. Even if X is one of us, there are three innocent. I'm not X." He cast a poisonous glance about him. "It's one of the others."

"Those of you who are innocent will form part of my government if they wish. They have nothing to lose."

"But you won't say who is innocent," bawled Bort. "You will keep us all out on the story of X, on the-on the-" Breathlessness brought him to a halt.

"I will not. In twenty-four hours I will know who X is. I have not told you. The Spatio-analyst we have all been discussing is now in my hands."

They fell silent. They looked at one another with reserve and suspicion.

Fife chuckled. "You are wondering which of you can be X. One of you knows, be sure of that. And in twenty-four hours we shall all know. Now keep in mind, gentlemen, that you are all quite helpless. The ships of war are mine. Good day!"

His gesture was one of dismissal.

One by one they went out, like stars in the depths of the vacuum being blotted out on the visiplate by the passing and unseen bulk of a wrecked spaceship.

Steen was the last to leave. "Fife," he said tremulously.

Fife looked up. "Yes? You wish to confess now that we two are alone? You are

Steen's face twisted in wild alarm. "No, no. Really. I just wanted to ask if you're really serious. I mean, continental autonomy and all that. Really?"

Fife stared at the old chronometer in the wall. "Good day."

Steen whimpered. His hand went up to the contact switch and he, too, disappeared.

Fife sat there, stony and unmoving. With the conference over, the heat of the crisis gone, depression seized him. His lipless mouth was a severe gash in his large face.

All calculations began with this fact: that the Spatio-analyst was mad, there was no doom. But over a madman, so much had taken place. Would Junz of the I.S.B. have spent a year searching for a madman? Would he be so unyielding in his chase after fairy stories?

Fife had told no one this. He scarcely dared share it with his own soul. What if the Spatio-analyst had never been mad? What if destruction dangled over the world of kyrt?

The Florinian secretary glided before the Great Squire, his voice pallid and dry.

"Sir!"

"WThat is it?"

"The ship with your daughter has landed."

"The Spatio-analyst and the native woman are safe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let there be no questioning in my absence. They are to be held incommunicado until I arrive… Is there news from Florina?"

"Yes, sir. The Townman is in custody and is being brought to Sark."