"Bright girl," laughed Kennebec. "Now let's get going. We want to see them off, don't we?"
Two hours later, seventy-five of the Solar Guard's finest ships arrowed into the sky above Mojave. In the lead, determined by a toss of the coin, was Stellor Downing's command. Thompson's outfit, running to his own taste, encircled the Downing cone at the base in a short cylinder, while bringing up the rear was Cliff Lane's long spiral. An hour out of Mojave, the flight went into superdrive and left the Solar Combine far behind in a matter of minutes.
By the clock, it was weeks later that the Solar Guard's flight dropped down out of superdrive and took a look around. The Little Man, in Thompson's ship, used his own instruments and indicated that the yellow star—it was more than a star at their distance—dead ahead was the one they sought.
"Downing," called Lane. "How's your power reserve?"
"Like yours, probably."
"We'd better find a close-in, hotter-than-the-hinges planet where they won't be populating and charge up, what say?"
"Good idea. Better than the original plan of charging in flight. If it's close in, it'll have ceased revolution, probably. We can hit the twilight zone and rest our feet a bit."
"O.K. I'll put the searchers on it."