"How well are you doing today, Commissioner?" asked one of his third set of guards.  Reinhart grinned at him and patted his stomach.  Then, his thin face rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up at the central SRB computer monitor screen, and began studying its readings.

“Just as you thought, sir," said the chaplain.  There's been an uninterrupted straight gain for the last quarter,” Kaplan, the computer lab chaplain, told him. He was grinning proudly, as if personally responsible for all of the advance but willing to share the glory. “Not bad, Commissioner.”

“Actually, we’re barely inching up to them,” Reinhart retorted with a bite to his tongue.  He swung his gaze back to Kaplan. “It's too slow, Chaplain. We must keep pushing; We must go over into our favor — and it's got to be real soon or the enemy will be attacking us.”

The chaplain was in an exuberant mood. “We design new offensive weapons, they counter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually manufactured! Continual improvement, but neither we nor Centaurus can stop designing long enough to stabilize anything for production.”

“It will end,” Reinhart stated coldly, “as soon as Terra churns out a weapon for which Centaurus can build no defense.”

“Every weapon has a defense," the chaplain protested. Design and discord. Immediate obsolescence. Nothing lasts long enough to—”

“Like this, all we can count on is the lag,” Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hard gray eyes stared at the chaplain and Kaplan slunk back, finally put in his place again. “The time lag between our offensive design and their counter development. The lag varies with each new advance.” He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRB machines. “As you well know.”

At this precise moment, 09:30 - 7 May, 2336 CE. the statistical ratio on the SRB machines stood at 23-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All facts considered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by Proxima Centaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on the total information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vast flow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol and Centaurus systems.

23-17 on the Centauran side was very bad. But 3 months ago it had been 24-18 in the enemy’s favor. Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus, older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra’s accelerating rate of technocratic advance. The sons of Terra were famous for finding mud holes to bog through with the boys on their toys; the same mind set had them incrementally pulling ahead.

“If we went to war now,” Reinhart said thoughtfully, “we would probably lose too many troops to ever recover. We’re not far enough along to risk an overt attack.” A harsh, ruthless glow twisted across his handsome features, distorting them into a stern mask. “But, yes, the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensive designs are gradually gaining on their defenses.”

“Let’s hope the war comes soon,” the chaplain agreed. “We’re all on edge; we're not squirrels. This damn waiting….”

The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it. The air was full of tension with all the rapid, shallow breathing, the elan. He left the SRB rooms and hurried down the corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Security wing. It wouldn’t be long. He could practically feel the hot breath of destiny twiddling with the hairs on the back of his neck—for him it was a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set in a humorless smile, showing an even line of white teeth against his tanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He’d been pushing hard on his mantras for a long time to deal with the strain.

First contact had been a hundred years earlier.  It had ignited instant conflict between Proxima Centauran outposts and Terran exploring ships. Flash fights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams had been constant ever since then.

And then the long, dreary years of inaction between enemies where contact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light. The two systems were evenly matched in resource permutations. Screen against screen. Warship against power station. The Centauran Empire had slowly surrounded Terra with an iron ring that couldn’t be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radical new weapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.

Through the mirrored windows of his office, Reinhart could see endless buildings and streets, Terrans hurrying back and forth. Bright specks that were commute ships, little eggs that hustled businessmen and white-collar workers around. In the distance were the huge transport tubes that shot masses of workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units faster than the speed of sound. "All these people are waiting to break out, waiting for the day of liberation I will be in a position to deliver."

His gaze narrowed as some facts and figures he had studied recently suddenly clicked together and spat out a new permutation.  Something was going on at Military Designs.

Reinhart snapped his desktop vidscreen on, thumbed down to the confidential channel and clicked on “Military Designs.”

Abruptly he was facing the hulking 3-D image of Peter Sherikov, chaplain of the vast network of labs hidden under the Ural Mountains.

Sherikov’s great bearded features hardened as he recognized Reinhart. His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. “What do you want? You know I’m busy. We have too much work to do as it is without being bothered by a bunch of politicians.”

“I’m dropping over your way,” Reinhart answered casually. He adjusted the cuff of his immaculate gray cloak. “I will want a report with full descriptions of your current work and whatever progress you’ve made.”

The chaplain snorted in disgust.  “You’ll find a regular departmental print out filed in the usual way, I'm sure it's lying around your office someplace, perhaps even filed under Coming Attractions. If you’ll refer to that you’ll know exactly what we—”

“I’m not interested in that. I want to see the hidden work you’re really working on. And I expect you to be prepared for a personal demonstration of that work's progress."

The chaplain's jaw dropped open.  "Oh," he said.  He turned and looked behind him as if his secret had somehow become exposed.  Still bewildered, he turned back to face Reinhart.

 He nodded when Reinhart said, "I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Reinhart cut the connection. Sherikov’s scowling features reluctantly dwindled and faded. Reinhart sprayed his throat with go-juice and relaxed as the burst of pure, clean oxygen rushed to his brain.  He exhaled slowly and prepared for the next, soothing burst of oxygen.  It was too bad he had to work with Sherikov. He had never liked the insolent man. The big Polish scientist fancied himself an individualist, refusing to integrate himself with society. Independent, atomistic in outlook. He held concepts of the individual as an end, diametrically contrary to the accepted organic state Weltansicht.

Nonetheless, Sherikov was the leading research scientist, in charge of the Military Designs Department. And on Designs the whole future of Terra depended. Victory over Centaurus—or more waiting, bottled up in the Sol System, surrounded by a rotting, hostile Empire, now sinking into ruin and decay, yet still strong.

Reinhart got quickly to his feet and left the office. He hurried down the hall and out of the Council building with his relays of guards ushering him safely out.

A few minutes later he was heading across the mid-morning sky in his highspeed cruiser, heading toward the Asiatic land-mass, the vast Ural mountain range.

Sherikov met him personally at the entrance. “Look here, Reinhart. Don’t think you’re going to order me around. I’m not going to -- ”

“Take it easy.” Reinhart walked past the bigger man.  With Sherikov still fuming, they passed through the check station and into the auxiliary labs. “No immediate coercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You’re free to continue your work as you see fit—for the present. Let’s get this straight though. My intention is to integrate your work with our total social needs. As long as your work is sufficiently productive—”

Reinhart stopped in his tracks.  Rising up in the center of the chamber was a squat metal cylinder, a great ugly cone of dark gray. Technicians circled around it, wiring up the exposed relay banks. Reinhart caught a glimpse of endless tubes and filaments, a maze of wires and terminals and parts criss-crossing each other, layer on layer.

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Sherikov asked ironically.  He was staring at the golden emblem of a naked man suspended in the massive opening.

“What in the world is it?

“Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greek myth? The legend of Icarus? Icarus was the second man to fly. He became over-confident, and flew too close to the sun.  Naturally the heat of the sun melted the wax holding his wings in place and he plunged to his death. This Icarus is going to do some serious flying though, one of these days he will be leaving the sun far, far behind.” Sherikov broke off and shrugged. “You can examine him all you want to. This is the secret project you came here to see.

“How does he look?  I've been working on an idea of Jamison Hedge—the same man who developed instantaneous vidcasts for us. He was trying to find a method of faster than light travel when he was killed, destroyed along with most of his work. After that ftl research was abandoned. It looked as if there were no future in it.”
 

“This is not a ship.” Sherikov grinned slyly. “Icarus is the first practical application of Hedge’s principles. Icarus is a Flying Bomb.”

“So this is our secret weapon,” Reinhart said. “A bomb. An immense bomb.”

“Yes. Furthermore, it is an undetectable bomb, moving at a velocity greater than light it cannot be seen or detected. A bomb which will not exist in our universe until it arrives. The Centaurans won’t be able to detect it or stop it. How could they? As soon as it passes the speed of light it will cease to exist—beyond all detection.”

“But—”

“Icarus will be launched outside the lab, on the surface. He will align himself with Proxima Centaurus, gaining ftl speed rapidly. Our best estimates are that by the time he reaches his destination he will be traveling at ftl-150. Icarus will be brought back to this universe within Centaurus itself. The explosion should destroy the star -- and most of its planets will disintegrate —including their central hub-planet, Armun. There is no way they can halt Icarus, once he has been launched. No defense is possible. Nothing can stop him. This is no longer theory, this is virtually a real fact.”

“When will he be ready?”

Sherikov’s eyes flickered. “Soon.”

“Exactly how soon?”

The big Pole hesitated. “As a matter of fact, there’s only one thing holding us back.”

Sherikov led Reinhart around to the other side of the lab. He pushed a lab guard out of the way.

“See this?” He tapped a round globe, open at one end, the size of a grapefruit. “This is holding us up.”

“What is it?”

“The central control turret. This thing brings Icarus back to sub-ftl flight at the correct moment. It must be absolutely accurate. Icarus will be within the star system for less than a nanosecond. If the turret does not function exactly during that period, Icarus will pass clean out the other side and streak off harmlessly beyond the Centauran system.”

“So.  Just how near complete is this turret?”

Sherikov automatically hedged uncertainly.  Spreading out his big hands he spat out an angry burst of denials. “Who can say? I know it must be hard wired with infinitely minute equipment using microscopic midgit™ magnets, electronic grapples and accelerated streams of perishing protons.  In short, before we can finish this we must develop computers with more power to control it.”

“You must name a completion date!”

Sherikov let his mouth drop open.  "Have you heard anything I've said?"  He reached into his coat and brought out a Mason Drive. “I’ve drawn up all the data we have for your SRB machines to crunch on. You can go ahead and feed it in yourself.  The machines can work from that. But, the minute you open this drive you are the one responsible for containing the secrecy of this project”

Reinhart accepted the drive cautiously. “I’m not convinced I can trust you, Sherikov.  This might be completely empty.”

Sherikov’s features darkened. “Trust's a 2-way street.  If you demand advance information you'll have to be satisfied with results that have not been totally verified by actual field applications.  You’ll have to take a chance, Commissioner. I know how much you’d like an excuse to slick me out of here and install one of your pet puppets in.”

Reinhart studied the signs of belligerence in the huge scientist thoughtfully.  He breathed deeply for more oxygen, then exhaled. After this success, Sherikov was going to be a hard nut to crack. His Designs Department was responsible to Security, not the Council. Sherikov was losing ground—but he was still a potential danger. Stubborn, individualistic, refusing to subordinate his welfare to the general good.

“All right.” Reinhart put the drive slowly away in his coat. “I’ll feed it.”

An hour later Reinhart was nervously waiting for the results. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The SRB machines whirred, the visible combination disappearing. For a time no ratio showed. Reinhart tensed, his body rigid, denying a stream of oxygen to his brain. He exhaled sharply, then waited.

Finally the screen wiped out the previous screens and the new ratio appeared. Reinhart gasped. 7-6. In favor of Terra!

He hurried back to his office and triggered the immediate emergency mobilization alert to all Government departments. Then he leaked the matter to his most trusted journalist.  Everything would be happening fast from this point on.

He sprayed his throat with Go Juice for a burst of fresh, new oxygen.  Perhaps he was dreaming?  No, there it was, no doubt left. The odds score was now down to 7-5.73 in Terra’s favor. Reinhart hurried to get his papers in order in time for the emergency Council session.

At histo-research the print out was quickly pulled from the confidential file and rushed across the central lab to the chief official.

“Look at this email message!” Friedman cried as he dropped the print out on his superior’s desk. “Look at it!”

Harper picked up the self-destructing sheet, scanning it rapidly. “Sounds like the real thing. I didn’t think we’d live to see it.”

Friedman shook his head from side to side and left the room, muttering: "Some people!" He entered the Time Bubble lab center. “Where’s the bubble?” he demanded, looking around for a technician.

One of them looked slowly up. “It's back coming up with interesting data on launching the War of 1914. According to the variable material the bubble has already brought up —.”

“Cut it. We’re through with routine glory work. Yank that bubble back to the present. From now on all equipment has to be free for Military work.”

“But, Sir — you know the bubble is regulated automatically.”

“You must bring it back manually.”

“That’s too risky,” The technician protested. “If that bubble splits, we've lost it, and we will have lost all our data, too.  What kind of an emergency requires this instant response?”

“Terra is launching a preemptive strike and I've had no advance warning whatsoever.  This emergency requires the spectral variable factors be assimilated, yesterday,” Friedman said indignantly.

“What do we say now?  OOPS, sorry? -- We didn't mean to launch this all out war?  Please call all your ships back home?" Margaret Duffe, President of the Council, snapped.

"You're trying to make me sound like a fool," Reinhart growled.  "The odds are in our favor and we must attack before our position becomes obvious to the enemy!"

"Have you ever heard of time lag?  What? 9 years before our fastest ship can get there to mop up, as you so poetically said it?  The odds might change back. Any minute they can revert.”

“This is our only chance!” Reinhart snapped, his temper rising. “What the hell’s the matter with you? We’ve waited years for this opportunity.”

The Council buzzed with bitter recriminations, some for, some against. President Duffe paused uncertainly as she tried to count votes. “This MIGHT be the right opportunity, and our ONLY chance but this Council is here for the purpose of ascertaining that it IS the right opportunity and our only chance.  By launching that asinine missive you have triggered aggressive activity from which we cannot call retreat.  Your odds, SIR, are contrived. They stand on the basis of a single weapon's untested performance.”

“You don’t grasp the situation.” Reinhart shouted back.  He held himself in check with great effort. “Yes, Sherikov’s weapon has tipped the ratio in our favor. But those odds have been moving steadily in our direction for months. It was only a question of time. The new balance was inevitable, sooner or later. It’s not just Sherikov. He’s only one factor in this. It’s all nine planets of the Sol System — not a single man.”

"That's what you are mincing into declaring now, but what was it you were saying in the missive that launched this premature fiasco?"