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ignored.
    Maddox took a step forward and halted just behind where Weight sat at the main console. Before him lamps flashed in endless signalling, one of the circuits that continually monitored the ship and surround.
    ‘The big screen, Frank. Full magnification.’
    Maddox watched as the distant stars seemed to move aside, an optical illusion that gave the impression of hurtling at a fantastic velocity towards them in space. And still he saw nothing.
    ‘Try filters.’
    The stars flickered and changed colour as Weight obeyed, feeding selective filters over the scanners, blocking out various bands of the electro-magnetic spectrum while bolstering others.
    The results were the same.
    Nothing.
    Space remained as empty as before.
    Empty, but holding something which had warned them twice now to stay away. Something which could emit psychic energy to directly influence the brain. A power which warned of devastation and death unless they obeyed.
    ‘Commander?’
    ‘That’s enough, Frank. Order a Pinnace and crew to make ready for an investigation-flight. Douglas West will want to take command — let him pick his own co-pilot.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Put the ship on yellow alert — and keep it on until further orders!’

CHAPTER 3
    Leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat, Ivan Gogol indulged in a dream. He was a chief of the Bandhaisai riding with Attila, the Kagan of the Hiung. Beneath the hooves of his horse the Steppes rolled back to the East while ahead, misted in rumour, lay the wealth of a decadent civilisation. Soon now they would reach the gates of Rome and, the world would be theirs to loot, to burn, to take and use as they wished.
    Even the thought of it sent the blood pounding in his veins to throb in his ears, sending adrenalin to stimulate nerve and muscle, sharpening his awareness, his aggression. The physical prelude to combat as it was a symptom of fear.
    ‘Ivan!’ From the pilot’s chair Douglas West glanced at his companion. ‘Keep alert there!’
    ‘I’m alert, Skipper.’
    ‘Then report on instrumentation during the past five minutes.’
    ‘All systems operating at optimum,’ said Ivan immediately. ‘Temperature of rear left lifting jet a little high but within tolerance. All clear on scanners. Radio contact at constant level. Humidity —’
    ‘That’s enough.’ Automatically West scanned his own instrument panel, a shift of the eyes which had become second nature to the Head of Spatial Reconnaissance. Ahead space, as far as he could determine, was clear. As clear as it had been when they left the Ad Astra an hour ago.
    Settling back, he thought about his co-pilot.
    Ivan Gogol was a dreamer and a romantic of the old tradition, living in imagination the glories of the past, fighting ancient battles and adopting the mantle of the great. In that there was no harm, only when it threatened his efficiency would there be cause to worry. His immediate report had meant little; any serious fluctuation in the operation of the Pinnace would have triggered an alarm and in such a case West would have acted. Yet he hadn’t actually lied, he had the facility of split-mind operation; turning a part of himself into a watchful automaton while allowing the rest of his mind to indulge in fantasies.
    A trait which could be an asset in certain conditions but dangerous in others. No pilot, West knew, could be expected to maintain total concentration for long periods at a time. It was mentally and physically impossible to do that; insidious fatigue would ruin finely balanced judgements and, unless recognised, would lead to fatal error. A man who could watch for hours at a stretch, who would spring into full and complete awareness at any moment when triggered by something wrong, was a man ideal for routine patrols.
    But for an investigation flight?
    West had made his decision and had chosen Gogol to accompany him. How he acted now would determine his future with Reconnaissance.
    He said, ‘Skipper, have you ever studied