Count Arrol held
his crossbow across his knee, a bolt cocked in the carriage, his finger on the
trigger.
Ten feet from the two Greenback sentries, Prince Tavilan
reined in.
“Aren’t you men accustomed to render a proper salute when
your Commander makes a surprise inspection?” he said calmly.
The Greenbacks looked at each other, fingering their guns.
“It looks as though the word had gone out,” Arrol whispered
to Retief.
“You cover the Prince; I’ll handle the entry port,” Retief
murmured.
At that moment a figure eased into view at the port; light
glinted from the front sight of a power gun as it came up, steadied—
Retief sighted, fired; in the instantaneous blue glare, the
man at the port whirled and fell outward. The Greenback nearest Tavilan made a
sudden move to swing his gun on the Prince—then stumbled back, a steel quarrel
from Arrol’s cross-bow standing in his chest. The second Greenback dropped his
weapon, stood with raised hands, his mouth open and eyes wide, then turned and
ran.
Tavilan leaped down from his steed, dashed for the access
ladder, his cross-bow ready. As though on command, four men followed him, while
others scattered to form a rough semi-circle at the base of the ladder.
Sheltered behind a generator unit, Retief and Arrol covered the port. Tavilan
disappeared inside, the men at his heels. There was a long half-minute of dead
silence. Then a shout sounded from the next vessel in line, a hundred yards
distant. Tavilan reappeared, gestured.
“Everybody in,” Arrol called. The men went for the ladder,
sprang up in good order; those waiting on the ramp faced outward, covering all
points.
A
light flashed briefly from the adjacent vessel; a sharp report echoed. A man
fell from the ladder; others caught him, lifted him up. Far away, a harsh voice
bellowed orders.
“They aren’t using any heavy stuff,” Arrol said. “They
wouldn’t want to nick the paint on their new battle wagon . . .”
A squad of men appeared, running from the shadows at the base
of the ship from which the firing had come. Most of the troop were up the
ladder now; two men hustled the struggling Groaci up. Beside Retief, Arrol
launched three bolts in rapid-fire order. Two of the oncoming men fell. The
blue flashes of power guns winked; here and there, the surface of the tarmac
boiled as wild shots struck.
“Come on . . .” The two men ran for the
ladder; Arrol sprang for it, swarmed up. Retief followed; molten metal
spattered as a power-gun bolt vaporized the handrail. Then hands were hauling
him inside.
“Hit the deck,” Arrol yelled. “We’re
lifting . . . ?”
“We
took one burst from an infinite repeater,” an officer reported, “but no serious
damage was done. They held their fire just a little too long.”
“We were lucky,” Prince Tavilan said. “One man killed, one
wounded. It’s fortunate we didn’t select the next ship in line; we’d have had a
hornet’s nest on our hands.”
“Too bad we broke up the battalion crap game,” Retief
commented. “But by now they’ll be lifting off after us—a few of them, anyway.”
“All right—we’ll give them a warm welcome before they nail
us—”
“If I may venture to suggest—”
Tavilan waved a hand, grinning. “Every time you get too
damned polite, you’ve got some diabolical scheme up your sleeve. What is it
this time, Retief?”
“We won’t wait around to be nailed. We’ll drive for Deep
Space at flank speed—”
“And run into Dangredi’s blockage? I’d rather use my
firepower on Prouch’s scavengers.”
“That’s where our friend the General comes in.” Retief nodded
toward the trussed Groaci. “He and Dangredi are old business associates. We’ll
put him on the screen and see if he can’t negotiate a brief truce. With the
approval of Your Highness, I think we can make an offer that will interest
him . . .”
The flagship of the pirate fleet was a
his crossbow across his knee, a bolt cocked in the carriage, his finger on the
trigger.
Ten feet from the two Greenback sentries, Prince Tavilan
reined in.
“Aren’t you men accustomed to render a proper salute when
your Commander makes a surprise inspection?” he said calmly.
The Greenbacks looked at each other, fingering their guns.
“It looks as though the word had gone out,” Arrol whispered
to Retief.
“You cover the Prince; I’ll handle the entry port,” Retief
murmured.
At that moment a figure eased into view at the port; light
glinted from the front sight of a power gun as it came up, steadied—
Retief sighted, fired; in the instantaneous blue glare, the
man at the port whirled and fell outward. The Greenback nearest Tavilan made a
sudden move to swing his gun on the Prince—then stumbled back, a steel quarrel
from Arrol’s cross-bow standing in his chest. The second Greenback dropped his
weapon, stood with raised hands, his mouth open and eyes wide, then turned and
ran.
Tavilan leaped down from his steed, dashed for the access
ladder, his cross-bow ready. As though on command, four men followed him, while
others scattered to form a rough semi-circle at the base of the ladder.
Sheltered behind a generator unit, Retief and Arrol covered the port. Tavilan
disappeared inside, the men at his heels. There was a long half-minute of dead
silence. Then a shout sounded from the next vessel in line, a hundred yards
distant. Tavilan reappeared, gestured.
“Everybody in,” Arrol called. The men went for the ladder,
sprang up in good order; those waiting on the ramp faced outward, covering all
points.
A
light flashed briefly from the adjacent vessel; a sharp report echoed. A man
fell from the ladder; others caught him, lifted him up. Far away, a harsh voice
bellowed orders.
“They aren’t using any heavy stuff,” Arrol said. “They
wouldn’t want to nick the paint on their new battle wagon . . .”
A squad of men appeared, running from the shadows at the base
of the ship from which the firing had come. Most of the troop were up the
ladder now; two men hustled the struggling Groaci up. Beside Retief, Arrol
launched three bolts in rapid-fire order. Two of the oncoming men fell. The
blue flashes of power guns winked; here and there, the surface of the tarmac
boiled as wild shots struck.
“Come on . . .” The two men ran for the
ladder; Arrol sprang for it, swarmed up. Retief followed; molten metal
spattered as a power-gun bolt vaporized the handrail. Then hands were hauling
him inside.
“Hit the deck,” Arrol yelled. “We’re
lifting . . . ?”
“We
took one burst from an infinite repeater,” an officer reported, “but no serious
damage was done. They held their fire just a little too long.”
“We were lucky,” Prince Tavilan said. “One man killed, one
wounded. It’s fortunate we didn’t select the next ship in line; we’d have had a
hornet’s nest on our hands.”
“Too bad we broke up the battalion crap game,” Retief
commented. “But by now they’ll be lifting off after us—a few of them, anyway.”
“All right—we’ll give them a warm welcome before they nail
us—”
“If I may venture to suggest—”
Tavilan waved a hand, grinning. “Every time you get too
damned polite, you’ve got some diabolical scheme up your sleeve. What is it
this time, Retief?”
“We won’t wait around to be nailed. We’ll drive for Deep
Space at flank speed—”
“And run into Dangredi’s blockage? I’d rather use my
firepower on Prouch’s scavengers.”
“That’s where our friend the General comes in.” Retief nodded
toward the trussed Groaci. “He and Dangredi are old business associates. We’ll
put him on the screen and see if he can’t negotiate a brief truce. With the
approval of Your Highness, I think we can make an offer that will interest
him . . .”
The flagship of the pirate fleet was a
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