The war was on. The signal had been sent out to the warfleet that had waited so long near Proxima Centaurus. A feeling of triumph raced through Reinhart. He had won. He had destroyed the man from the past and broken Peter Sherikov. The war had begun as planned. Terra was breaking out. Reinhart smiled thinly. He had been completely successful.
“Commissioner.”
Reinhart turned slowly. “All right.”
Kaplan was standing in front of the machines, gazing down at the reading. “Commissioner—”
Sudden alarm plucked at Reinhart. There was something in Kaplan’s voice. He hurried quickly over. “What is it?”
Kaplan looked up at him, his face white, his eyes wide with terror. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came.
“What is it?” Reinhart demanded, chilled. He bent toward the machines, studying the reading.
And sickened with horror.
100-1. Against Terra!
He could not tear his gaze away from the figures. He was numb, shocked with disbelief. 100-1. What had happened? What had gone wrong? The turret was finished, Icarus was ready, the fleet had been notified—