There was the basic aggregate of nine full squadrons spread out flat in a space lattice that ran back and forth from narrow end to wide end of the cone of probability. There was one full squadron of roving ships that went aimlessly back and forth across the pattern, just to cope with the happenstance factor.
One squadron was parked at either end of the search grid as space markers, with a computer ship at either end to maintain a constant check on their space coordinates. The big search pattern shuttled from one end to the other, and if they came back to miss the marker ships, they retraced their path so that no space went uncombed.
The infrawave chattered and Space Admiral Stone was calling for Commodore Theodore Wilson.
"How're you coming?"
Wilson replied, "We're still at it, Admiral. So far we haven't seen her."
"Don't forget, Wilson, there's more lost out there than the woman you want."
Ted wanted to snap back angrily, but all he said was, "You don't mind if I take this search personally, do you, Admiral Stone? I'm not overlooking any bets, but I do admit that Miss Hemingway is a bit more important to me than any of the rest."
"No, I suppose no one could blame you for that. Just keep it up, Wilson."
"Sure," Ted said wearily. "After all, this is a black and white job I'm on. Either we'll be successful—or we won't."