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ki—to the Sopwithians?”
    “Seems they’re eating ‘em, sir.”
    “Eating them, Mr. Pomeroy?”
    Pomeroy nodded. Quent leaned over the shaft and called Svensk. When the saurian’s big head appeared, Quent asked, “What Human spacers could have landed here and attacked the natives or—ah—exploited them as food?”
    Svensk’s raised his eye membranes reflectively.
    “Possibly you refer to Drakes?”
    “What are Drakes?”
    “The Drakes, as they call themselves, are a band of Humans, strength unknown, base unknown, possessing not less than five spaceships, who maintain themselves by sporadic raids upon shipping and colonies,” Svensk creaked. “Until recently reported only in Sector Ten, they—”
    “One of our little sector problems,” Sylla grinned. He bounded to his console and began to polish his claws. “Quite beneath the notice of the Academy.”
    “Navigator, a sensor orbit, please. Mr. Svensk, let’s pick up the location of that vessel as soon as possible. Mr. Pomeroy, ask them where that sky-boat is, how big it is, how many attackers, and what weapons.”
    The Sopwith commo officer believed that the ship had come down somewhere northeast of the port city. It was bigger and brighter than the sun, carrying at least five hands of monsters. They spouted burning flames which made no noise.
    “That’s thirty of ‘em,” said Pomeroy. “As to their weapons, Drakes would have lasers, flame-throwers, grenades, and maybe a rocket-launcher or two, groundside. Them kinks don’t know ships or weapons, sir. Flinging stones is about it, with them.”
    They still had not located the alien ship when the Sopwith city area went into night. The Sopwith commo officer on the ground was growing balky.
    “He says the monsters are coming in again,” Pomeroy reported. “Listen.”
    The voder gabbled wildly, gave out a string of shrieks and cut off.
    “That’s it, sir. He’s taken off. Well, there’ll be no business here. We’d better log up the report and get on.”
    “Mr. Svensk, what’s that field like?” asked Quent thoughtfully.
    The lizard was absorbed in his sensor adjustments.
    “Mr. Svensk. Is that field usable?”
    Svensk reared up. “Very primitive.” He shrugged.
    “Navigator,” Quent said icily. “Landing trajectory to field, please.”
    Three pairs of eyes rounded on him.
    “Landing?” Sylla licked his chops. “The acting captain is perhaps unaware that patrol boats do not—”
    “I’ve inspected our system, Mr. Sylla. It’s fully operational. In case you’re concerned, my training has included the landing of comparable craft.”
    “But sir,” protested Pomeroy, “What about Morgan? He don’t like going planetside, sir.”
    Quent glanced at the voders and cleared his throat.
    “Mr. Morgan, there is an emergency on this planet and we must land. I count on your cooperation. Mr. Sylla, is that course ready?”
    “Set,” snapped Sylla through his teeth.
    Quent engaged the auxiliaries and started to code in the autopilot. As he touched it the familiar din cut loose from the voder.
    “Mr. Morgan.” Quent rapped the speaker. “Stop that racket. We must land, do you understand? I’m taking us down!”
    To the din was added a crackling sputter and the lights jumped. Svensk dived for his computer leads.
    “Stop that, Morgan. Stop it. I’m going to land or I’ll crash the ship. Hear that—you’ll crash us.”
    “In the name of the Path,” Imray roared from the shaft. “What?”
    “It’s our duty to land, sir,” Quent said. “Emergency on the planet.”
    Imray burst onto the bridge, paws over his ears. He stared at Quent.
    “I’m committing us.”
    Quent slammed the manual override.
    Imray grabbed up his speaker.
    “Morgan—Morgan, boy, it’s me.” Imray’s voice sank to a huge croon. “Be good boy, Morgan—down we must go. I swear you, for little minute only—ship it will not hurt. Morgan! You hear, Morgan? Morgan boy, listen Imray—ten meters