furiously from where its
rocket-flames had played.

Lock-doors opened. Briskly moving landing-parties trotted across the
ground toward the grid-control building. There were two ships already in
the spaceport. One was a Mekinese guard-ship of approximately the
armament of the _Isis_. Weapons trained swiftly upon it. Missiles roared
across the half-mile of distance. They detonated, chemical explosives
only. The Mekinese guard-ship flew apart. What remained was not truly
identifiable as a former ship. It was fragments.

Bors asked curtly, "Grid office?"

The landing-party was inside. A small tumult came out of a speaker. A
voice said:

"_All secure in the grid office, sir._"

"Hook in to planetary broadcast, declare a first-priority emergency, and
run your tape," commanded Bors.

He said over the ship's speakers, "Everything going well so far. Prize
crew, take the cargo-ship. Keep the crew aboard. Then report."

Ten men poured out of the grounded light cruiser's starboard port and
trotted on the double toward the other ship aground. The weapons on
Bors's ship did not bear upon it.

The sun shone. Clouds drifted tranquilly across the sky. Masses of smoke
from the demolition-missiles that had smashed the guard-ship rose,
curled and very slowly dissipated. Ten men entered the bulbous
cargo-ship.

Up to now the entire affair had consumed not more than five minutes,
from the appearance of a blip on a spaceport radar screen, to the
beginning of a full-volume broadcast. Bors turned on the receiver and
listened to the harsh voice--especially chosen from among the
crew--which now came out of every operating broadcast receiver on the
planet.

"_Notice to the people of Tralee! There is aground on Tralee a ship with
no home planet nor any loyalty except to its hatred of Mekin. We were
part of the fleet of Kandar until that fleet was destroyed. Now we fight
Mekin alone! We are pirates. We are outcasts. But we still have arms to
defend ourselves with! We demand...._"

A voice said curtly in Bors's ear, "Cargo-ship secured, sir."

"Take off on rockets and maneuver as ordered," said Bors. "Then
rendezvous as arranged."

He returned his attention to the broadcast. It was a deliberately
savage, painstakingly desperate, carefully terrifying message to the
people of Tralee. It demanded supplies and arms on threat of destroying
the city around it. A single one of its combat-missiles, as a matter of
fact, could have done a goo