And I tell you," McNeil propped himself up on his elbow to
exclaim more vehemently--"there wasn't a whisper of trouble from here
clear across the channel and pretty far to the north. We were already
sure the south was clean before we ever took cover as Beakers,
especially since their clans are thick in Spain."
Ashe chewed a broiled wing reflectively. "Their permanent base with the
transport _has_ to be somewhere within the bounds of the territory they
hold in our own time."
"They could plant it in Siberia and laugh at us," McNeil exploded. "No
hope of our getting in there----"
"No." Ashe threw the stripped bone into the fire and licked grease from
his fingers. "Then they would be faced with the old problem of distance.
If what they are exploiting lay within their modern boundaries, we would
never have tumbled to the thing in the first place. What the Reds want
must lie outside their twentieth century holdings, a slender point in
our favor. Therefore they will plant their shift point as close to it as
they can.
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