"Stand by." Then, to the scanning technicians, Dumarest said, "Any change in observed positions?"

"None." The voice sounded worried. "But they've started using thermal paste."

"Seal area in immediate vicinity. Inform if enemy changes positions." Then, to the Corps, "Right, we move in. Keep low and shoot first." And for God's sake hit the right targets, but he didn't mention that. The white flashes they wore would serve to identify them to each other if they took the time to look. "Ready? Go-and good luck!"

Dumarest felt the outer skin of Zabul scrape over his chest and thighs as, like a crab, he eased himself over the surface. The scanners had discovered the enemy busy at the foot of one of the towering pinnacles which dotted the curved and convoluted surface of Zabul. This surface had grown over the years as extensions had been made to the original plan, compartments added to the bulk of gutted vessels, space gained by rotund bulkheads. Now, illuminated by starlight, the fabrication resembled an ovoid, bristling with spines and blotched with warts. A dangerous world formed of declivities and slopes and enigmatic patches of shadow.

Something moved in one as Dumarest crawled near, a figure which paused, to rise and lift an arm. Dumarest rolled as heat followed the ruby guide beam of the laser.

"Hold it, you fool! What is your name?"

"What? I'm Varne. Kell Varne."

"Lower your gun! Do it!" Dumarest let anger sharpen his tone. "Now return to your entry port. See the officer in charge and place yourself under arrest. You're relieved of duty."

"But, sir, I-"

"No arguments! A man who will shoot a comrade isn't to be trusted with a gun. Now move before I burn you where you stand!"

An object lesson-the others would have heard and would now be more careful. The last he would give; the next man who threatened him would die no matter what uniform he wore. If he had allies in Command then Volodya could have friends in the Corps.

Dumarest moved on, reaching a narrow ridge, sliding over it to fall into a shallow declivity, reaching a level space where he paused to search the area ahead.

Starlight shimmered from reflective surfaces, revealing scars and rough patches, the spire of a scanning monitor, the tip of a distant tower. The horizon was near, too close for comfort, and the light made things deceptive. Was that a normal mound or the crouching figure of a man? Did that shadow come from a protuberance or from a watching guard?

And there would have to be guards-the brain which had planned the raid would not have neglected normal precautions. Men to work burning a hole through the surface, to reach the interior and then to use paralyzing gas to stun the inhabitants. Others to stand watch against surprise attack should the deception have failed, although that clever ruse had frozen the attention of Volodya and those in Command on the approaching vessels. Held it hard enough and long enough for a landing to be made on the surface of Zabul itself. But how had it been done?

A ship would have registered and been noticed despite the distraction. Sacs? The inflatable membranes would each have held no more than three men at a squeeze-only one if he was carrying equipment. Too many would have been needed and maneuverability would have been a problem. What then? Another facsimile?

Dumarest frowned as he stared ahead, then, to the scanning technicians, said, "Mark my position. Ahead and to my right, too low for good vision, lies something long and ovoid. Is it a natural part of Zabul?"

A moment while, high on a spire, the scanner of a relay moved to study the area.

"No, Commander."

"Size?" Dumarest nodded as it was given. Not an exact facsimile but something like one. A tough balloon fitted with compressed air to give motion and direction, filled with men and equipment and released far from Zabul on a flight path which would bring it to a point within easy reach. Nonmetallic, unmarked, a blur against the stars, it would have moved too slowly to trigger the alarms. The approaching vessels had made sure it would land without trouble.

But the diversion itself had warned Dumarest of the possibility.

He crawled sideways, reaching shadow and making his way onward. From the speakers he heard a sudden rasp of breath, a shout, a liquid gurgling followed by Medwin's voice.

"Kunel's dead! The bastards got him! Men! Let's get the swine!"

"Hold it!" Dumarest rapped the command. "This is no time for anger. Captain Medwin! Report!" He stressed the title.

"Sorry, Commander." The speakers carried the sound of ragged breathing. "I guess seeing him die got to me."

"Report, Captain!"

"We saw movement over to our right. That would be to your left. Kunel must have got impatient and I saw him rise and lope forward. He was a surface worker and knew how to do it. Then there was a flash from ahead and I saw him rear and go spinning upwards. Heard him too. Commander?"

"Stay low and keep calm. Kunel's dead, but that's war. He grew careless and paid the price. A flash, you say?"

"Yes." Medwin was steadier now. "Just a point of light."

"A gun of some kind." Dumarest talked more to calm young nerves than to give information. "A bullet projector. They're hard to aim in conditions like this. Kunel was unlucky."

In more ways than one. The gun could have fired nothing more dangerous than an anesthetic dart but he had been caught off balance and sent to spin helplessly in space. Unconscious, with a perforated suit, the end was inevitable. Even if the puncture had been sealed with protective paste carried within the suit fabric he would still die of asphyxiation long before he could be rescued.

A matter Dumarest thought best not to mention. Instead he said, "Spread out and surround the enemy. Contain their field of operations. Hold your fire. If you shoot they'll fire back and we want no more casualties."

"As you say, Commander." Medwin was relieved at not having to make life-or-death decisions. "How are you going to handle the situation?"

"I'm going in," said Dumarest. "I'm giving them a chance to surrender."

Fire glowed as he moved forward over the curved area before him, a line of seething incandescence which died even as he watched to be reborn a little to one side. The thermal paste the technician had mentioned against which suited figures moved in blurred silhouettes. Dumarest counted six; too few for the capacity of the pod, and he guessed others must be busy elsewhere if not on guard.

Busy, but doing what?

He rolled so as to look upward at the slender spire tipped with the scanning eye and saw a figure climbing up toward it. A figure invisible to normal vision blocked as it was by the edge of the helmet. Once the eye had been blocked or destroyed the monitoring technicians would be partially blinded. If other eyes were taken out the invaders would have Zabul at their mercy.

A plan beaten by speed alone. Dumarest and the Corps he had set into position had acted too fast for the invaders to complete the operation.

Lifting the laser from its holster Dumarest aimed, fired, fired again, a third time. High above, the figure halted and began to work desperately at one leg. The first shot had missed, the second barely touching, the third burning flesh and perforating the suit. If the man was to live he had to seal the fabric and, with his leg injured, he could no longer reach the eye.

Static buzzed in his speakers as Dumarest moved on. Sharp bursts followed by others, signals from the enemy who, like the defenders, were using scrambled communication. Dumarest sprawled on the surface resting his helmet against the metal. Small sounds vibrated in his ears; noise transmitted by the solid medium. He heard a scrape, a cough, the sound of a metallic tapping. These clues guided him to where a man crouched behind a riveted protrusion. A guard who, too late, realized he was no longer alone.