Supported on three narrow pencils of beamed force, the Fleet interceptor slowly circuited the Djann yacht, hovering on its idling null-G generators a thousand feet above the towering white mountain.
"Nothing alive there," the co-pilot said. "Not a whisper on the life-detection scale."
"Take her down." Vice Admiral Carnaby squinted through S-R lenses which had darkened almost to opacity in response to the frost-white glare from below. "The shack looks all right, but that doesn't look like a Mark 7 Flitter parked beside it."
The heavy Fleet boat descended swiftly under the expert guidance of the battle officer. At fifty feet, it leveled off, orbited the station.
"I count four dead Djann," the admiral said in a brittle voice.
"Tracks," the general pointed. "Leading off there . . ."
"Put her down, George!" The hundred-foot boat settled in with a crunching of rock and ice, its shark's prow overhanging the edge of the tiny plateau. The hatch cycled open; the two men emerged.
At the spot where Carnaby had lain in wait for the last of the aliens, they paused, staring silently at the glossy patch of dark blood, and at the dead Djann beside it. Then they followed the irregularly spaced footprints across to the edge.
"He was still on his feet—but that's about all," the battle officer said.
"George, can you operate that Spider boat?" The admiral indicated the Djann landing sled.
"Certainly."
"Let's go."