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that protruded through the short, coarse grass. And it made it impossible to see if Drongo Kane had any weapons aimed at him and his party. Probably he had—but Seeker's main armament was trained upon Kane's ship and ready to blow her off the face of the planet at the slightest provocation.

    It was a little better once he and the Marines were in the shadow of the other ship. Grimes's eyes adjusted themselves and he stared upward at the blunt, metallic spire as he walked toward it. Defensively armed! he thought scornfully. Those two famous quick-firing cannon reported by the Bug Queen were merely an addition to what the Buster already had. Even so, in terms of laser and missiles, Seeker had the edge on her.

    Southerly Buster's ramp was down. At the foot of it an officer was standing, a skeletal figure attired in gray coveralls with shoulder-boards carrying first mate's braid. The man was capless, and bald, and the wrinkled skin of his face was yellow, almost matching the long teeth that he showed when he smiled at the men from Seeker.

    "Commander Grimes?" he asked in an overly ingratiating voice.

    "Mr. Dreebly?" countered Grimes.

    "Aloysius Dreebly, sir, at your service."

    And so this, thought Grimes, was Aloysius Dreebly. Small wonder that Myra Bracegirdle, Southerly Buster's PCO, hated him. He matched his name—as people with ugly names so very often do. They, as it were, grow to fit the labels that misguided parents bestow upon them at birth. And this Dreebly, Grimes continued thinking, I wouldn't trust him behind me. He'd either kiss my arse or stab me in the back—or both.

    "And will you come aboard, Commander? Captain Kane is waiting for you."

    "Certainly, Mr. Dreebly. Lead the way, please."

    "Oh, sir, I'm afraid I cannot allow these other men aboard the ship . . . ."

    "And I'm afraid that I can't board unless I have an escort of my own people. Captain Philby!"

    "Sir!"

    The young Marine officer had his pistol out, pointing at Dreebly. His sergeant and the six privates held their rifles at the ready.

    "But, sir . . . what are you thinking of? This is piracy!"

    "Hardly, Mr. Dreebly. All the way from our ship to yours we were tracked by the muzzle of one of your quick-firers. Surely you will allow us to show our teeth."

    "Let the bastards aboard, Dreebly!" boomed Kane's voice from a loudspeaker. "But put your guns away first, Commander. I don't expect my guests to check in their pocket artillery at the door—but, on the other hand, I take a dim view if it's waved in my face."

    At a word from Grimes Philby reholstered his pistol, the Marines slung their machine rifles. Dreebly shambled up the ramp to the after airlock, followed by the party from Seeker. Inside the compartment, Grimes looked about him curiously. He had been expecting something squalid—but, at first glance at least, this seemed to be a reasonably well-kept ship. There was a distinct absence of Survey Service spit-and-polish—but such is found only in vessels where there is a superfluity of ratings to do the spitting and polishing. There was shabbiness—but everything looked to be in excellent working order.

    The elevator from the stern to the control room would accommodate only four men. Grimes decided to take Philby and one private with him, told the captain to tell his sergeant and the remaining Marines to stand guard in the airlock and at the foot of the ramp. (The Marines were apt to sulk if anybody but one of their own officers gave them a direct order.) Dreebly led the way into the cage and, as soon as the others were standing there with him, pressed a button.

    She was quite a hunk of ship, this Southerly Buster, thought Grimes, as they slid rapidly upward, deck after deck. She had probably started life as an Interstellar Transport Commission's Gamma Class cargo liner but, under successive ownership, had been modified and remodified many times. A vessel this size, even with a minimal crew, would be expensive to run.