There was shock. Although the strange ship had barely nudged the hull plates, brains writhed and circulatory systems labored to readjust to an abrupt change in direction of movement. Then the stranger was firmly alongside, secured by magnetic grapples, and the airlock doors were opening automatically as pressure on both sides equalized.
Men poured through the airlock. They were a desperate, savage crew from the prison lighter. Their weapons were crude but effective. The battle was brief, a momentary huddled violence, then officers and crew of the supply ship were overwhelmed. Oddly enough, casualties were few on either side.
It is easier to unleash wolves than to restrain them once they have tasted blood. Wilding hated senseless slaughter, and he held back the vindictive impulses of his ugly horde with the hand of a master.
"Did any message get through?" he asked Concor.
The Martian shook his head unhappily. "Part of one. We tried to blanket their transmitter, but—"
"That shortens our time. Don't harm our prisoners. We may need them for hostages."
Convicts went through the ship and routed out everyone in hiding. The captives were lined up and Wilding went down the line inspecting his catch. The crewmen were both angry and frightened. The officers blustered.
One of the last captives, turned out of hiding in the crew's quarters, was a girl. She limped into the straggled line-up and faced the new masters of the ship.
Wilding stared at her in astonishment. "Elshar!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
The girl did not answer at once. She shrugged, smiling curiously. Racial strangeness was in the angles of her face-structure. Large, luminous eyes, of deep blue, rode high on tilted cheekbones. She looked very young, with her face still pale from shock. In her dark hair and fair skin were the curious blendings of mixed blood, which often produces rare beauty. But for the twisted leg, she was perfect as one of those incredibly delicate and minute figurines carved of Martian ivory, but more human. All too human.