The primitive ships of the war's beginning were still vivid memories to Hartnett. He had spent many months in them, suffering the effects of free-fall for weeks while they coasted in half-computed orbits around the sun. The people of Terra had long had atomics, but it was not until the third year of war that a method had been found to utilize the power of the atom for a space drive. In those days a ship did not dare even a perihelion passage, for fear the terrible heat of the sun would detonate their precious reserves of fuel. Things were different now.
Ward reentered the room abruptly. "Message from Luna Control, sir," he said, passing over the note. "Came on tight beam, coded, and scrambled," he added unnecessarily.
The Commodore read it over slowly and pursed his lips. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and reached for the intercom. "Control."
"Control here," came the reply.
"Stand by for a change of course. Be with you in a moment."
There was a moment of surprised silence, and then: "Aye, sir."
Hartnett turned to his aide. "Reach me that space-bag, will you Ward? That's the one. Fish out Code Book 6589 and the A chart. That's the deal."
Hartnett's staff and all of the Darkside's officers not actually on watch assembled in the wardroom on the Commodore's orders. The Flotilla had already come about and was heading sunward, its steady acceleration of 3 Gs aided by gravity. Already, Greys had been packed away in deference to the rising temperature, and all hands were clad in fiberglass shorts and jumpers.
The assembled officers rose when the Commodore entered the room and he waved them back to their seats, taking a chair at the head of the mess table.