The "cups" of coffee were squeeze bottles; the trays were soft plastic packages, similar to the boil-in-the-bag containers of frozen food that had been common on Earth for some time.
Mike hesitated at the entrance to his engineering quarters, considering whether to shut the bulkhead, but discarded the idea as being more of an attention-getter than a seal for secrecy. He gestured Ishie to the bunk, and parked himself at his console.
"We're in trouble," he said. "You and I together are responsible for the first space attack on Earth."
He stopped and waited, owl-eyed, but the small physicist simply tackled his breakfast with no further comment than a raised eyebrow.
"We," said Mike solemnly, "wiped out Thule Base last night."
"As Confusion would say, there's no Thule like a dead Thule. What are you getting at Mike? You sound serious."
"You mean you slept through ... you didn't know we ... you didn't hear the ... yes, I guess you slept! Well...."
Rapidly Mike sketched the events of the past nine hours, bringing his story completely up to date, including the information he'd gleaned from the Cow, but making no reference to his access to the computer's knowledge. Instead, he attributed the conclusions to himself.
The physicist sat so still when he had finished that Mike became seriously concerned. "Thule...." he began, but Ishie started to speak.
"Mike, it did? It couldn't ... but ... of course, it must have ... the fields ... six hundred forty pounds of thrust! Only six hundred forty, yet ... yes, it could, if the thrust were exactly aligned ... thrust ... Mike, thrust! Mike, thrust! Real thrust! Mike do you know what this means?" His eyes were alight. His voice was reverent. He sprang from the bunk and knelt before the rack that held the churkling Confusor.