Near the planet, where the two space-boats floated, the dawnline appeared at the world's edge. The space-boats swung about, facing backward, and applied power for deceleration. They dropped into the atmosphere and bounced out again, and in again--more deeply--and then swung once more to face along their course. They began a long, shallow, screaming descent from the farthest limits of the planet's atmosphere. * * * * * Out where the sun of Garen was a disk of intolerable brilliance and heat, the battleship bumbled on its way. It would seem that its commander scornfully accepted the _Isis's_ terms of combat and moved contemptuously to the position where his weapons would be most deadly. His ship's launching-tubes were at the ready. It should be able to pour out a cloud of missiles. In fact, a sardonic voice came from the battleship. "_Calling pirate_," said the voice. "Yes," said Bors. "_If you wish to surrender--_" "We don't," said Bors. "_I was about to say_," said the sardonic voice, "_that it is now too late._" The radar-screen showed tiny specks darting out from that larger speck which was the battleship. They came hurtling toward the _Isis_. Bors counted them. A ship of the _Isis's_ class mounted eighteen launching-tubes. She should be able to fire eighteen missiles at a time. The Mekinese ship had fired nineteen. If the _Isis_ opened fire, by all the previous rules of space-combat, she would need to use one missile to counter every one of the battleship's, there would still be one left over to destroy the _Isis_--unless she fired a second spread of missiles, which was virtually impossible before she would be hit. It was mockery by the skipper of the battleship. He was doubtless much amused at the idea of toying with this small, insolent vessel. But Bors did not try to match him missile for missile. He said evenly, "Fire one. Fire two. Fire three. Fire four." He stopped at four. His four missiles went curving wildly, in the general direction, only, of the enemy. * * * * * On the planet Garen two shrieking objects came furiously to ground. Men leaped swiftly out of them and trotted toward a small town, a settlement, a group of houses hardly larger than a village. One man delayed by each grounded space-boat, and then ran to overtake the others. Local inhabitants appeared, to stare and to wonder. The two landing-parties, ten men in each, did not pause. They swarmed into the village's single street. There were ground-cars at the street-sides. The men of the landing-parties established themselves briskly. One of them seized a staring civilian by the arm. "To hell with Mekin," he said conversationally. "Where's the communicator office?" "Wha--what--?" "To hell with Mekin," repeated the man from the _Isis_, impatiently. "Where's the communicator office?"