Jarl drove the knife deep into a _Pervod's_ breast; blasted a _dau_ back with his ray-gun's full charge. The fierce joy of conflict leaped in him. As from afar, he heard the shouts of his men as they lunged into the fray. The guards' ranks wavered. But now those from beyond the carrier were rushing to their aid. Steel clashed on steel. A great bulbous-bodied Thorian hurtled down on Jarl. Its tentacles wrapped round him, crushing him. Savagely, he slashed at the leathery body; blasted with the ray-gun, straight into the repulsive face. The Thorian's tentacles fell away. Jarl glimpsed Big Ungo, smashed down a _dau_ with a blow of his one mighty arm. There was a smell of blood and burnt flesh; wild screams of rage and fear and anguish. "To the ship--!" Jarl shouted. He hacked his way up the blood-slippery ramp; clutched Ungo's belt and half-dragged the Jovian aboard. The last of the raiders scrambled in behind them. The hatch clanged shut. The ready bell leaped to jangling life. There was a sudden roar of auxiliary gravicomps. The gyro-indicators jiggled and swayed in their mountings. Men lurched awkwardly, caught momentarily off balance in the crushing force of too-fast acceleration. Then stability returned. The carrier speared upward, out from Vesta, into the spark-spangled, glittering murk of the boundless astroidal night. Jarl turned, seeking out the crewmen, and a sudden sickness gripped him. There were only three now: three and Big Ungo. But the dead were dead, and they had gone as raiders go. Bleakly, he made his way to the viziscreen and turned it on. Spinning the dials, he drew a cross on the specific black emptiness where his ship had been scheduled to pick them up. His fingers shook a little, and his earlier, darker mood came back to nag him. _We're overdue, a day behind already. What if they've given us up and gone? What if a fleet patrol has flushed them out?_ Grimly, he calculated the carrier's chances of making Ceres on her own ... such slim, slim chances.... Only then, as he manipulated the dials, a great, shark-like bulk loomed on the viziscreen. At his elbow, Ungo thrust out a quivering talon and cried, "It's her, Jarl! The _Ghost_! She's still waiting!" Stiff-fingered, Jarl adjusted the focus. The familiar outlines of the raider ship sharpened. Silent, space-drive off, she drifted shadow-like through the asteroids like some strange, cylindrical metal world. * * * * * Jarl let out his breath, all at once acutely conscious of the strain that frayed at him. He was suddenly tottering weak, his belly sick and twisting. Still beside him, Ungo studied him with worried eyes. "Look, Jarl: You're done. Lay down before you fall down." Jarl braced his arm against the cabinet of the viziscreen. "How can I rest?" he mumbled, and knew himself that he was mumbling. "Even if we make it, what happens to the raider fleet--and to Ceresta? This new weapon...."