“Fasolt dead ahead,” came the word from Navigation. “Prepare for decelerating orbit.”

From the fore viewing bay of the Terran starship Peccable, the twin planets Fasolt and Fafnir had become visible — uninhabited Fasolt a violet ball the size of a quarter-credit piece dead ahead, and Fafhir, home of the gnorphs, a bright-red dot far to the right, beyond the mighty curve of the big ship’s outsweeping wing.

The nameless, tiny blue sun about which both worlds orbited rode high above them, at a sharp 36 degrees off the ecliptic. And, majestic in its vastness, great Antares served as a huge bright-red backdrop for the entire scene.

The eighteen men who comprised the Terran mission to the gnorphs of Fafhir moved rapidly and smoothly toward their landing stations. This was a functioning team; they had a big job, and they were ready for it.

In Control Cabin, Shipmaster Deev Harskin was strapping himself into the acceleration cradle when the voice of Observer First Rank Snollgren broke in.

“Chief? Snollgren. Read me?”

“Go ahead, boy. What’s up?”

“That Rigelian ship — the one we saw yesterday? I just found it again. Ten light-seconds off starboard, and credits to crawfish it’s orbiting in on Fasolt!”

Harskin gripped the side of the cradle anxiously. “You sure it’s not Fafhir they’re heading for? How’s your depth-perception out there?”

“A-one. That boat’s going the same place we are, chief!”

Sighing, Harskin said, “It could have been worse, I guess.” He snapped on the all-ship communicator and said, “Gentlemen, our job has been complicated somewhat. Observer Snollgren reports a Rigelian ship orbiting in on Fasolt, and it looks likely they have the same idea we have. Well, this’ll be a test of our mettle. We’ll have a chance to snatch Fafhir right out from under their alleged noses!”