There was a saying in the Protectorate that when the Lord Protector was angry, stars and heads fell. Commander Krogson felt his wobble on his neck. His far-sweeping scouts were sending back nothing but reports of equipment failure, and the sector commander had coldly informed him that morning that his name rested securely at the bottom of the achievement list. It looked as if War Base Three would shortly have a change of command. “Look, Schninkle,” he said desperately, “even if we can’t give them anything, couldn’t we make a promise that would look good enough to take some of the heat off us?”
Schninkle looked dubious.
“Maybe a new five-year plan?” suggested Krogson.
The little man shook his head. “That’s a subject we’d better avoid entirely,” he said. “They’re still asking nasty questions about what happened to the last one. Mainly on the matter of our transport quota. I took the liberty of passing the buck on down to Logistics. Several of them have been… eh… removed as a consequence.”
“Serves them right!” snorted Krogson. “They got me into that mess with their ‘if a freighter and a half flies a light-year and a half in a month and a half, ten freighters can fly ten light-years in ten months!’ I knew there was something fishy about it at the time, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
“It’s always darkest before the storm,” said Schninkle helpfully.