Jamison shrugged. "Put 'er down anywhere. Makes no difference to me." His scarred lips tightened.
"Okay," Murph switched the set back on. The same record was playing, monotonously.
"Load up with combat equipment, boys. We're going in."
The deadly silver needle tightened the spiral course around the planet, and above Murph the speaker crackled again and went dead.
"Guess they got tired of playing that record," he muttered.
Another crackling and the mechanism blared again.
"... we see you intend disregarding our warning. In accordance with Interstellar Code, it is only fair to warn you...." It clicked off abruptly as Murph jabbed at the switch. No use listening to this outworld nonsense—he'd heard it all before and lived through it.
"Where's the rest of the fleet?" He threw the question out generally.
"Nine hours behind," Jamison said. "We blast in. They follow us." The three men were silent as they scanned the radar screen. They whined above a land mass and Murph juggled the controls and the ship swooped upward, then settled slowly, riding on the jets. While they waited for the ground around them to cool, the men climbed into combat gear. The radar scanned the military hemisphere available and Murph casually flipped the radio switch again.
"... have disregarded our warning," the voice said, insistently. "In accordance with the Interstellar Code, we can not now be further responsible...." It croaked into silence as Murph slammed the switch closed again.