He filled his spacesuit with air once more and capered back to the bridge. He punched a flare button labelled: RESCUE. From the hull of the «Nomad» shot a sunlet that burst and hung, flooding miles of space with harsh white light.

«Come on, baby you,» Foyle crooned. «Hurry up, man. Come on, baby baby you.»

Like a ghost torpedo, the stranger slid into the outermost rim of light, approaching slowly, looking him over. For a moment Foyle's heart constricted; the ship was behaving so cautiously that he feared she was an enemy vessel from the Outer Satellites. Then he saw the famous red and blue emblem on her side, the trademark of the mighty industrial clan of Presteign; Presteign of Terra, powerful, munificent, beneficent. And he knew this was a sister ship, for the «Nomad» was also Presteign-owned. He knew this was an angel from space hovering over him.

«Sweet sister,» Foyle crooned. «Baby angel, fly away home with me.»

The ship came abreast of Foyle, illuminated ports along its side glowing with friendly light, its name and registry number clearly visible in illuminated figures on the hull: Vorga-T:i339. The ship was alongside him in a moment, passing him in a second, disappearing in a third.

The sister had spurned him; the angel had abandoned him.

Foyle stopped dancing and crooning. He stared in dismay. He leaped to the flare panel and slapped buttons. Distress signals, landing, take-off, and quarantine flares burst from the hull of the «Nomad» in a madness of white, red and green light, pulsing, pleading . . . and «Vorga-T:i 339» passed silently and implacably, stern jets flaring again as it accelerated on a sunward course.