Wocha charged into the squad, grabbed a hapless Terran in his four-fingered hands, and swung the man like a club. Someone drew his bayonet to stab the slave, it glanced off the thick skin and Wocha roared and sent him reeling. The riot blazed around the room, trampling men underfoot, shouting and cursing and swinging. "Donovan, Donovan!" shouted Sam Olman. He charged the nearest Impy and got a bayonet in the stomach. He fell down, holding his hand to his wound, screaming. The door was suddenly full of Terrans, marines arriving to help their comrades. Paraguns began to sizzle, men fell stunned before the supersonic beams and the fight broke up. Wocha charged the rescuers and a barrage sent his giant form crashing to the floor. They herded the Ansans toward the city jail. Donovan, stirring on the ground as consciousness returned, felt handcuffs snap on his wrists. * * * * * Imperial summons being what they were, he was bundled into a groundcar and taken under heavy guard toward the ordered place. He leaned wearily back, watching the streets blur past. Once a group of children threw stones at the vehicle. "How about a cigarette?" he said. "Shut up." To his mild surprise, they did not halt at the military government headquarters--the old Hall of Justice where the Donovans had presided before the war--but went on toward the suburbs. The spaceport being still radioactive. They must be going to the emergency field outside the city. Hm. He tried to relax. His head ached from the stun-beam. A light cruiser had come in a couple of days before, H. M. _Ganymede_. It loomed enormous over the green rolling fields and the distance-blued hills and forests, a lance of bright metal and energy pointed into the clear sky of Ansa, blinding in the sun. A couple of spacemen on sentry at the gangway halted as the car stopped before them. "This man is going to Commander Jansky." "Aye, aye. Proceed." Through the massive airlock, down the mirror-polished companionway, into an elevator and up toward the bridge--Donovan looked about him with a professional eye. The Impies kept a clean, tight ship, he had to admit. He wondered if he would be shot or merely imprisoned. He doubted if he'd committed an enslaving offense. Well, it had been fun, and there hadn't been a hell of a lot to live for anyway. Maybe his friends could spring him, if and when they got some kind of underground organized. He was ushered into the captain's cabin. The ensign with him saluted. "Donovan as per orders, ma'm." "Very good. But why is he in irons?" "Resisted orders, ma'm. Started a riot. Bloody business." "I--see." She nodded her dark head. "Losses?" "I don't know, ma'm, but we had several wounded at least. A couple of Ansans were killed, I think." "Well, leave him here. You may go." "But--ma'm, he's dangerous!" "I have a gun, and there's a man just outside the door. You may go, ensign."