the barrel, ran his fingers over the smashed front sight, down the barrel, over the electro-coil and onto the action. When it started pulling the switches while the muzzle still leaned against his chest, he became hopeful that the end was in sight. But the safety-catch proved to be on. Finally it released that. Resting the barrel on his shoulder, it went after the switches again, while he tried surreptitiously to aim the muzzle where it should be.

Lightning scorched the back of his neck and the gun clattered to the floor. But he felt it shaking violently on his back. When he made a grab for it, he almost caught it off guard. Then it didn't even punish him, just clung there shaking. Inside his brain, the Captain smiled. Apparently it was unfamiliar with such weapons. He was surprised its first move had not been to retrieve some powerful weapon of its own. Perhaps the planet had been so well organized or even civilized that there had been no stimulus to invent or use weapons of this sort?

Cautiously it raised the rifle, this time pointing the muzzle the other way. Lightning flared. It dropped the rifle. Quickly it picked it up and fired again and again like a child with a new toy. When it raised his hand, instead of gouging his eye, it gently stroked his cheek. He shuddered.

Bending him over, the thing ran his hands over Grimes. It felt Grimes' wrist, then felt his, then felt Grimes' again. Suddenly it released him and he sank limp and exhausted across Grimes' body. Perhaps it wanted to see if he could help Grimes, bring him back to life, otherwise, why this solicitude? He considered making another grab for it, but he knew it would be on guard. He would be smarter to co-operate. He went through the motions of artificial respiration, then shrugged. What would it make of this gesture? He began to talk to the thing, then to tap out morse code on the floor, finally to trace out triangles, squares, pentagons with his fingers: no response. Without warning he grabbed with both hands.

It did not even bother to punish him. It set his hands to gathering the small cold bodies of its species. When he was through they made only a double handful that he carried up a twisted ramp, through doors that creaked automatically in the darkness, to a warm, faintly sweet smelling room. Here he laid the bodies on a corrugated ledge.

In darkness he knelt and beat his knuckles on the floor. Rising, his fingers pressed a button. Something clicked and it began to swing its weight rhythmically as if it danced to a sound he could not hear. Or could it be rhythm received through some 

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