* * * * * "We've had it, boss." Sandoval's voice came in like a knell of doom. "Torpedo caught us right on the drive lattice. The drives are shot." "Enemy cruiser coming up dead astern," the talker said. "Range eighty--closing slowly." The "Dauntless" lay dead--coasting through space. The faint hiss of escaping air and the clatter of booted feet were the only sounds in the hull. The lights still burned on emergency power--but the drive and the powerplant were gone, and with them the "Dauntless" capability to fight. Fiske wondered dully what was keeping the ship intact. Somehow the riddled hulk had failed to explode in the sunburst that usually marked the finish of a fighting ship. The guns were silenced. The last mine and torpedo had been fired. The intercom was a shambles of shorted circuits and dead lines. A hole fully a foot across had been ripped through the right side of the control room giving a free opening onto the blackness of space. One more shell, Fiske thought--and that would be the end of it. But it never came. The Eglan ship matched velocity less than a hundred yards away--and a dazed communications officer reported--"Sir--they've opened a channel--they want to surrender!" Fiske looked at Pedersen. Pedersen looked at Fiske. The blank incomprehension on the face of one was precisely matched in the face of the other. This was incredible! The Eglan was still in fighting trim. The "Dauntless" was a wreck. Yet the aliens were offering to surrender--and they never surrendered! "A trap?" Pedersen asked. "Why? They've got us. We're helpless and they know it." Fiske turned to the intercom. "Tell them we accept. Tell them to lower their screens and prepare to receive boarders." He turned to Pedersen. "Wonder how we're fixed for a boarding party? You have any idea?" Pedersen shook his head. "I'm going to have a look." Fiske removed his safety harness and rose stiffly from his chair, moving painfully toward the manway that led aft to the main gun batteries and the drives. He passed shambles. Bodies were everywhere. The sick bay had been destroyed by a direct hit. Guns and torpedo mounts were twisted wreckage garnished with dead. The communications center was miraculously untouched, still operating on emergency power, still broadcasting over the all wave transmitter as the endless tape ran and reran through its guides. A hulking figure was bent over the transmitter, working with torch and welding rod resetting tie-downs broken by concussion. With dull surprise, Fiske recognized Sandoval. The big man saw him and grinned feebly. It was a miracle that he hadn't been opened up, but his battered armor was intact except for several minor rips covered with patches and sealant. His helmet was dented and the short range communicator at its back was shot away. Fiske shook his head as he approached and laid his helmet against the engineer's.