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If they didn’t, their fates were academic. Evil abounded in the universe, and one life more or less wouldn’t make much difference. The damage was done; this was for revenge, pure and simple—and perhaps to protect other helpless, defenseless worlds.

Klyn Shanga glanced through the canopy of his fighter at the rest of the group clustered around the battleship engine. All together, they looked laughable—the same way, no doubt, their world had looked to the intruder. They resembled nothing more than a grotesque, desiccated plant, an interstellar tumbleweed being blown wherever the fates would have it. Shanga tried to take comfort in the notion that nothing could be further from the truth, that they were a spare and deadly force who would take their adversary completely by surprise.

At that moment, his communications console sprang into life.

There were no greetings, no salutations. The beam was tight, intended only for the cluster of fighters. It boomed and faded with the galactic drift.

On the screen, a young military figure was visible, his gray uniform unadorned by rank or unit markings. Shanga knew him to be the second officer of the decommissioned Imperial Cruiser Wennis.

The figure did not speak, but only nodded.

Keying his transmitter, Shanga asked, “He is on his way, then?”

The figure nodded again, but hatred and fear burned in his eyes, just as it burned in the heart of Klyn Shanga and all his men.

“He will be there when we arrive?” asked Shanga.

For the first time, the officer spoke. “There is the possibility of some delay—of a detour, apparently—but I believe the original course will be resumed in a short time.”

Klyn Shanga rubbed his calloused hands together. In the many decades since his world’s last war, he had been a farmer, living peaceably and contentedly among animals and plants and children. Now that could be no more, because of the person they were discussing. He knew his men were listening to the confirmation that the prey was at last near to hand. They had come a long, long way to hear that news.

“You take considerable risk,” Shanga said, some sympathy seeping into his weathered expression.

“It is unnecessary to discuss that. It is well worth it. I must signal off; the chance of detection grows by the second.”

Shanga nodded. “Be well, then, and good luck.”

“The same to you.”

Many parsecs away, an impatient Rokur Gepta closed a switch and sat back, to ponder. His first, most immediate inclination was to choke the life—better yet, the sanity—from the young pup who was betraying him. Not for the first time was he grateful to himself for having installed the secondary system of surveillance devices in the personal quarters of his underlings. The second officer had easily fooled the official bugs.

Well, Gepta would have his revenge at the appropriate time. Now it was important to let this complication resolve itself. He did not recognize the individual with whom the officer had spoken, but then Gepta was very old, so old that the truth would have frightened most ordinary beings. He had seen and done a lot in the many centuries he had lived. He had made many enemies, most of them now long dead.

So should it always be.

One thing he could do: hasten the process. He shelved his earlier plans; they had had a certain hesitancy to them anyway. He keyed a switch on the table beside the bed in his living quarters.

“Bridge? Gepta. Cancel previous orders. Reinstate the course I previously gave you. We will proceed directly to the Oseon.”

• V •

LOB DOLUFF WAS a pear-shaped man who looked larger on the televisor than he was in fact. He had what Lando found himself thinking of as a skin-tight dark beard and a naked scalp that looked as though it had been waxed and polished.

His manner was ingratiating, he was an enthusiastic sabacc player, and a good loser. This was something of a necessity, it appeared, since enthusiasm and skill do not always go together.

Sitting across the table from Lando, Doluff