"Doctor, as far as I can tell, you've accomplished nothing except sharply defining your ignorance."

"I told you a week ago I was stalled, Major." Dykstra was sitting on his couch. The major had refused a

seat.

"Let's cut the bullshit. You're going to be on the next boat home if you don't justify your worth to this

organization. I can't afford to have prima donna geniuses flouting my authority, particularly when they aren't needed anymore.""Now wait one minute, Major-""No! You wait," Moore said angrily. "No one has probably ever said this to the Great Genius Dykstra, but I will. We don't need you, Doctor. You've done good work for us, certainly, but we have Hague now, and he can carry the same load. Besides that, he doesn't threaten to go over my head to get his way."

"When did I ever do that?"

"When you forced me to go after MacTavish, Doctor. Or had you forgotten?"

No, he hadn't forgotten the conversation. But it was clear to Dykstra now that when he'd said he could get more funding, Moore had only heard the part about going to the superiors.

The major continued to fume and sputter, finally saying, "Should we send you home, Doctor?"

"I no longer have a home, Major!"

Moore left, hot as hell, but not yet ready to fire the foremost genius of the age.

Sunday, the men arrived from Slingshot with the alien drive.

A corner of the huge docking bay had been converted into a laboratory for work on the drive section. Dykstra had watched as the tail of the half-crushed alien ship was maneuvered into the lab from the bay proper.

It had taken the Patrol a month to bring it in from Slingshot, a month spent in near total communication silence lest the Belt discover them.

A month in which he'd been unable to understand how it worked.

Now he stood before it, alone.

They'd cut open the hull to expose the engine; four meters long, three across at the widest, looking like a tin can that had been crumpled and stretched back out.

Dykstra was not allowed to touch it.

Arie Hague would be along soon; he and Rick were en route from Paracelsus crater where they'd been looking over the facilities. Major Moore had not specifically forbidden Dykstra to work on the engine,

but he'd made it clear that Hague would be in charge of studying the thing, so it would only be proper courtesy that the "other genius" of the Phinon Project get to open it up first.

Of course, putting the pliable Hague in charge meant that Moore would call all the shots.

And take the credit.

"You've foiled me, fiendish engine of alien sorcery," Dykstra said. Perhaps it was best that he couldn't

open up the drive unit himself. Yes . . . it would be better to let someone else work on it. Someone who can get along without a cane, he thought as he tapped it against the hull of the ship.

"Hey! I hauled that sucker nine billion kilometers to get it here. Why are you hitting it with that stick?" Dykstra turned to see a black man, perhaps in his seventies, wearing coveralls, coming from the doorway. Despite what the man had just said, he looked amused.

"This thing has caused me a month of sleepless nights," Dykstra said. "Just be glad I'm only giving it love taps. By the way, I'm James Christian Dykstra."

"As if I don't know. I'm Roger Tykes. People call me 'Pops.' "

"You look older than the average Patrol officer," Dykstra noted.

"Hah! As if you should talk, Doctor."

Dykstra liked him. "Please, call me Chris."

"I am older, Chris. But piloting spaceships is what I like to do. Anyway, I'm too old for the front lines,

so I was stationed at Slingshot. That's why my crew and I were the ones who brought that baby in," Pops

said.

Dykstra lit up. "You were at the base when the aliens attacked? I know most of the story, but the details were hazy on how we got this drive section. Something about a lifeboat crashing into one of the attacking ships."

Pops became solemn. "Chris," he said, "you find the real heroes among the damnedest people. It was one of the scientists who did it . . . just a kid ensign drafted for his brains. He'd been ordered to get away in a lifeboat. Then all of a sudden the lifeboat comes screaming back, and the aliens must not have been paying attention because they never touched him. He rammed this one," Pops said, patting the remains of the ship with his hand, "on the nose of the shield, and the front crumpled to nothing. The other ship turned tail and ran after that. And I mean ran. Wait until you see the pictures on that."

On a strong hunch, Dykstra asked, "What was the ensign's name?"

"MacTavish. Steven MacTavish. We called him 'Mackie.' Quiet kid. Newlywed. Did brilliant work but wanted nothing more than to get back to his wife."

"I knew it," Dykstra whispered.

"Eh? You knew him?"

"No. But I know his wife. He had every reason to want to come home."

"Tell her she should be proud," Pops said. "It won't help her much right now, but he saved us. A lot of

others aren't feeling the pain she is now because of what he did."

Dykstra frowned. "I can't tell her. Security. She thinks he died on a battleship."

"That's bullshit. She has a right to know. Screw the regulations!" Pops said.

After Pops left, Major Moore arrived with Vander Kam and Hague.

"Here it is, Dr. Hague. The Phinon FTL drive engine. It's all yours to tinker with." Like a father to a half- witted son.

But Hague did not look delighted at the prospect of opening up the engine. He looked scared.

"Go ahead," Moore said. "Go look at it, Dr. Hague."

The diminutive scientist approached it slowly, revulsion evident upon his face. He reached out

tentatively to touch it.

"He's afraid of it," Vander Kam whispered to Dykstra.

Dykstra just watched.

"No!" Hague said, backing away. "No, no, Major Moore. No! It's not right. It's not a right thing! It's not

a right thing."

"But Dr. Hague, you've got to look at it. . . ." Moore said, confused.

"No! No, I won't! I won't! No, no, no. It's wrong." He started to cry. He turned to the major, grasping his

sleeve. "Don't make me touch, Major. No, please, don't make me," he pleaded.

"But, Doctor-"

"No!" Hague screamed. "No! It's wrong! It's a wrong thing! No!" He bolted out of the lab, a fast scurry

with his short legs.

"Oh, damn it!" Moore said.

"Dr. Hague is not a normal scientist, Major," Dykstra said. "He's an autistic savant. As high functioning

as he is, it may be that he literally cannot deal with something as strange and alien as that drive.""You'd like that, wouldn't you, Doctor?" Moore said hotly. "Well don't count on it. We'll get Hague psychiatric help, or sedatives, or whatever the hell it takes. But he'll work on that engine, goddamnit!"

He stormed out.

"I don't think so," Rick said, watching the major leave. "He doesn't know Hague like I do. Do you know

Hague has to have his tea every day at exactly 1600 hours? If it's late in coming, he gets really upset, kind of like he just did. If he doesn't want to work on it, he won't work on it. End of discussion." He punched Dykstra lightly on the shoulder. "Congratulations. She's going to be your baby."

That evening Dykstra scanned the new material in the Slingshot file. Pops and his crew had brought in the actual data cubes from the Slingshot computers.

He found the records dealing with Steve's heroics, but not the second ship escaping. Those records would be available tomorrow, and he'd see them, with everyone else, at the afternoon briefing.

Among the records was a transcript from the voice log of Steve's lifeboat: SM: "I'm out, speeding up fast . . . there's the ships . . . oh! There goes the perimeter battery. . . ."Voice identified as Lieutenant Nick Malloy: "Steve, is that you running?"SM: "It's me, Nicky. Turning tail and bolting for the blue."NM: "Godspeed, Steve. Tell them what's happening."SM: "Where are you?"NM: "Right where you left me-the tracking room. We've lost half the personnel. Tell my wife I love her.

Shit! He's making another pass!"SM: "Where is Pops?"NM: "Out in the Ranger, trying to fight them. He doesn't have the firepower, though. Brave son-of-a bitch. I can see him now. You should be able to see him, too."SM: "Got him. He's vectoring . . . rocket away. A hit!"NM: "They didn't even move. Oops! You see that? The bastards winged him!"SM: "Pops, are you out there? Do you need help?"Voice identified as Commander Roger Tykes: "Of course I'm here, Mackie. Get the hell lost! That's why they put you in that lifeboat."

SM: "But-"

RT: "No, goddamnit! Your duty is to get clear. You may be the only record that gets out of here!"NM: "They're releasing another rocket. Oh my God . . ."SM: "Nick!"NM: "Good-bye." Heavy static.SM: "God. Oh, God!"RT: "Another micronuke. Don't know why they don't just blast us to smithereens . . ." hiss and crackle ". . . damn signal is breaking up."SM: "I've got an idea, Pops. I'm turning around."RT: Unrecognizable . . . "No, your . . ." static.SM: "I can't run out, Pops. I think I can get one ship. Their shields are like ours. I can ram, use the lifeboat like a KKV, collapse the shield."

A tear trickled down Dykstra's cheek as he read the account.

SM: "Getting close now. Suppose I should have some final words . . . I love you, Sammi . . . but I have to do this . . . remember John 15:13 . . .

"Time to tweak the course. My target is still dawdling around. The other is hanging with him, just popping off shots. There-that should do it. Let's see what we can leave for Christmas. . . .

"Eight seconds. Good-bye, Sammi. I love you. Take me now, Jesus. Take this you son-of-a-!"

The account ended. Dykstra stared at the screen.