9

The Far Star was two days out in space, when Hober Mallow, in his private quarters with Senior Lieutenant Drawt, handed him an envelope, a roll of microfilm, and a silvery spheroid.

“As of an hour from now, Lieutenant, you’re Acting Captain of the Far Star, until I return,—or forever.”

Drawt made a motion of standing but Mallow waved him down imperiously.

“Quiet, and listen. The envelope contains the exact location of the planet to which you’re to proceed. There you will wait for me for two months. If, before the two months are up, the Foundation locates you, the microfilm is my report of the trip.

“If, however,” and his voice was somber, “I do not return at the end of two months, and Foundation vessels do not locate you, proceed to the planet Terminus, and hand in the Time Capsule as the report. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At no time are you, or any of the men, to amplify in any single instance, my official report.”

“If we are questioned, sir?”

“Then you know nothing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The interview ended, and fifty minutes later, a lifeboat kicked lightly off the side of the Far Star.