a of the landing-grid. Over a large part
of this world's surface all activity had stopped while men listened to a
broadcast.

"Fifteen seconds gone," said Bors icily.

He wrote out an order and passed it for execution.

"Thirty seconds gone."

From twenty giant buildings in the city, a black tide of running figures
began to pour. When they reached the street, they went on running. They
wanted to get as far as possible from the buildings Bors had said would
be destroyed.

"Forty-five seconds gone," said Bors implacably.

A voice spoke from the grid-control building, where men were now
placing explosives with precisely calculated effects. The voice came on
microwaves to the ship.

"_Sir_," said the voice, "_landing-grid reporting. Space-yacht_ Sylva
_reports breakout from overdrive and asks coordinates for landing.
Purpose of visit, pleasure-travel._"

Bors swore, then smiled to himself. Gwenlyn had threatened to do
something drastic!

"Say landing's forbidden," he commanded an instant later. "Advise
immediate departure."

He pressed a button and said evenly:

"One minute gone! In two minutes more we send our bombs and take off."

Streets outside the government buildings were filled from building-wall
to building-wall by clerks drafted to staff the incredible, arbitrary
government set up on its tributary worlds by Mekin. Bors scribbled a
list of buildings to be ranged on. The map from the spaceport office
would help. He marked the Ministry of Police, which would contain the
records essential to the operation of the planet-wide police system.
Anything that happened to those records would be so much good fortune
for Tralee, and so much bad for the master race and its quislings. He
marked the Ministry of the Interior, which would house the machinery for
requisitions of tribute to Mekin. The Ministry of Public Order would be
the headquarters of the secret and the political police. It ran the
forced-labor camps. It filed all anonymous accusations. It kept records
on all persons suspected of the crime of patriotism. If anything
happened to those records, it would be all to the good.

"Two minutes gone," said Bors.

The voice from the spaceport control building said briskly:

"_Demolition charges placed, sir. Ready to evacuate and fire. Sir, the
space-yacht_ Sylva _sends a message to the captain of the pirate ship.
It says they'll wait._"

Bors said, "Damn! All right." Then into the broadcast-microphone,
"T