"Move and you die!" Dumarest had touched his helmet to the other's, his voice carried by direct conduction. "How many of you are there?"

A burst of static came from his speakers, halting as he dug the muzzle of the laser deep into the suit and the flesh it enclosed.

"Just answer my question."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Someone short of patience. You want to talk or nurse broken elbows?"

"You're all mouth," sneered the man. "You haven't the guts."

"Try me." Dumarest waited then, as the man exploded into sudden action, moved back away from the swinging arm, lunging forward to lift the laser and send it smashing against the faceplate of the helmet. The blow starred the transparency but did not wholly break it. He heard the guard cry out as, again, their helmets touched. "Forget the elbows. Maybe you'd like to breathe vacuum instead."

"For God's sake, no!" The man lifted gloved hands to protect the damaged area. "I'm leaking air! Please, mister! You've done enough!"

"Then talk!"

"Yes. Just as soon as I've fixed this. Let me stick a seal over it and I'll tell you all you want to know."

"You'll tell me now. How many of you are there? Fifteen? Is that all?" The figure made sense. "Who is in command? Vellani? Contact him. Tell him I want to parley. Open channel. And I want him here. Warn him if he tries anything I'll burn the lot of you. Do it-then fix that helmet."

Vellani came within minutes, a bulky shape, huge in an armored suit. Starlight shone in reflected glimmers from mirrored plates protecting the joints and vital organs. The faceplate was opaqued so that he loomed like a robot against the stars. He came accompanied by three others who took up positions around the area.

"You want to parley," he said without preamble. His voice was deep, booming from the speakers. "All right, let's get on with it. I'll accept unconditional surrender." Dumarest said, "I was thinking of the reverse."

"A comedian. I've every one of your men marked and mine are ready. A word and you'll lead nothing but cold meat. In three minutes or less I'll be through the skin and into Zabul. That's my hand-what's yours?"

"Strong enough to know you're bluffing."

"Maybe." Vellani stepped nearer. To the guard who had stuck a transparent wafer over his faceplate he said, "Get back with the others. Maybe later you'll wish this character had finished the job."

"I did what I intended," said Dumarest. "You want to parley or waste time?"

"You don't sound right," mused Vellani. "You talk too strong for a local. You a stranger?"

"Maybe."

"You could be the one I came for. In that case you've saved me work and time." His hand lifted, the laser it held aiming at Dumarest's knee. "You've got guts so I'm giving you a choice. Be smart and cooperate and you'll stay in one piece. Act dumb and I'll turn you into a basket case. Arms off at the elbows, legs off at the knees. We'll seal the suit so you won't lose too much air and the beam will cauterize the wounds. I'll give you ten seconds to decide."

"How long have you commanded a combat team?"

"What?"

"Not long, I guess," said Dumarest. "Only a tyro would give an opponent that much warning. Ten seconds! I could kill you in the first two."

"And die yourself."

"Maybe, but what good would that do you?" Dumarest turned to look at the others standing close. "Or you? Open fire and you'll go down in a barrage. Do you think I'm stupid enough to call a parley without taking precautions?"

One of the men shifted uneasily. He said, "He's got a point, Jarl. And those locals could be trigger-happy."

"They're watching you now," said Dumarest. "Each of you is sighted in their guns. You'd do damage, sure, but you'd pay for it. Want a demonstration?"

From the speakers a voice said, "Give it to them, Commander! Spill their guts! They killed Lars Kunel!"

"Silence! Who is that talking?" Dumarest frowned trying to remember the voice. "Kirek? Is that Captain Kirek?"

"That's right, Commander. If you're turning soft I'm not. How about it, lads? Let's get the swine! Fire!"

"No, you fools! No!"

Dumarest lunged forward as he shouted, catching the bulky figure of Vellani at the waist, knocking him down as laser fire blazed around them. Beams hit and were reflected back from mirrored armor, searing the plates and protrusions of Zabul. Some hit more vulnerable targets.

A guard screamed as heat seared his faceplate and burned out his eyes. Another spun, blood spraying from his perforated suit. The third, faster, dropped, cursing, the weapon he held blasting a hail of missiles at suited figures who had risen to fire. Defenders who slumped or went twisting into space beneath the impact of hammering slugs.

"You bastard!" Vellani heaved to free himself. "You tricked us!"

"No," snapped Dumarest. "I played it straight and you know it. They've mutinied!"

Running wild beneath the surge of novel emotions, intoxicated with the power of their weapons, burning to avenge the death of a friend. A hysterical mob, firing, missing, dying as more experienced fighters fired in turn. "The pod!" screamed Kirek. "Get the pod!" Half the beams missed even so large a target. Half the rest did nothing but burn holes in the thin but rigid envelope. Of the rest some pitted the surface, a few came close to the invaders, one reached a heap of supplies waiting to be moved from the pod.

Explosives together with a mass of thermal paste, uncrated, primed, ready for use. The concentrated energy expanded into a ravening cloud as the laser triggered the reaction.

CHAPTER SIX

Dumarest stirred, tasting blood, conscious of the ache in his head, the dull agony of his left arm. He blinked, clearing his vision of residual glare, remembering the surge of transmitted vibration, the crashing impact of debris against his body and the back of his helmet. An impact which had slammed the faceplate hard against the surface. Listening to the gush of air, he felt the transparency, finding it uncracked. The air loss was due to another cause and he found it-a jagged rip beneath his left shoulder. A place almost impossible to reach with his one good arm.

Rolling he pressed the rip hard against the surface, blocking the flow while he stripped an adhesive wafer from the pack on his thigh. A lift and with an effort which sent blood roaring in his ears he managed to partially block the escape of air. Another wafer and the gushing roar eased a little. A third, spread on the surface over which he rolled, made the best repair he could manage.

Not good enough.

Too much air had gushed from his tanks as the regulator had tried to maintain internal pressure. Now, like a savage eye, the warning light was flashing from the gauge in his helmet.

"Attention all Corpsmen," he said into the radio. "Report!"

He heard nothing but the empty wash of static. Trying to contact the technicians produced the same result; the blow which had sent him to the verge of oblivion had damaged the radio. Rising, Dumarest looked around.

The pod had vanished, the equipment which had stood around it, the men working on the skin. The scintillating fury of the thermal paste was now nothing but a tenuous mass of dispersing vapor high in space where it had been blown by the rush of escaping air as it had burned through to the inner compartments.

Vellani was dead. He lay sprawled on the metal, his blank visor turned up toward the stars, face hidden beneath the opacity. But there was no need to see his face-the long, jagged shard of metal which had penetrated his suit despite the armor told its own story. The crude spear had smashed through heart and lungs to transfix the man as if he'd been an insect on a pin.

Had Dumarest been on the other side of the man it would be he now lying dead. Luck-for Vellani all of it bad.