One squad went to the control room. Its leader, seeing that the Communications Officer was still trying to drive a call through the blanket, beamed him down without a word, then fused the entire communications panel. The captain and four or five other officers, maddened by this cold-blooded butchery, went for their guns and were butchered in turn. A larger group--helmets thrown back for unimpeded vision, hands bared for instantaneous and accurate use of weapons--invaded the main saloon. Most of them went on through to perform previously assigned tasks, only a half dozen posting themselves to guard the passengers. One of these guards, a hook-nosed individual wearing consciously an aura of authority and dominance, spoke. "Just take it easy, folks, and nobody will get hurt. If any of you have guns, don't go for them. That's a specialty that--" One of his DeLameters flamed briefly. Cloud's right arm vanished almost to the shoulder. The man behind him--what was left of him--dropped. "Take it easy, I said," he went calmly on. "You can tie that arm up, fella, if you want to. It was in line with that guy who was trying in his slow way to pull a gun. You nurse over there, take him to the sick-bay and let them fix up his wing. If anybody stops you tell them Number One said to. Now the rest of you watch your step. I'll cut down every damn one of you that so much as looks like he wanted to start something." They obeyed. They were very near the point of panic, but in view of what had happened no one dared to make the first move. The leniency displayed toward the wounded man also had a soothing effect. In a few minutes the looting parties returned to the saloon. "Did you get it, Six?" "We got it. It was in the mail, like you said." "The safe?" "Sure. Wasn't much in it, but not bad, at that." "QX. Control room! All done--let's go!" The pirates backed away, their vessel disappeared, and its passengers rushed for their staterooms. Then: "Doctor Cloud--Chief Pilot calling Doctor Cloud," the speaker announced. "Cloud speaking." "Report to the control room, please." "Oh, excuse me--I didn't know that you were wounded," the officer apologized as he saw the Blaster's bandaged stump. "You had better go to bed." "Doing nothing would only make it worse. Can I be of any help?" "Do you know anything about communicators?" "A little." "Good. All our communications officers were killed and the sets--even those in the lifeboats--blasted. You can't do much with your left hand, of course, but you may be able to boss the job of rigging up a spare." "I can do more than you think," Cloud grinned wryly. "It so happens that I'm left-handed. Give me a couple of technicians and we'll see what we can do." They set to work, but before they had accomplished anything a cruiser drove up, flashing its identification as a warship of the Galactic Patrol.