Hiss-s-s!

White flames streamed over his head. White flame singed his hair and clothing, bathed his face in quick burning sweat. He struck Vanger high in the belly, carried him down in a perfect tackle.

Vanger's head knocked against the ground. Ricker's fingers shot to his throat like a striking cobra. But there wasn't time to throttle the man. He let him go, drew his right fist back just six inches and stabbed into the Martian's chin. Vanger's head slammed against the ground again. He lay still.

Ricker snatched the pistol from his limp hand, heard shouts and glanced about frantically.

He saw men running toward him across the field, about ten of them with others trailing in the distance. They must have seen the fight from the factory. They came on like a drove of stampeding horses. Between himself and the charging crowd, Ricker saw the ship he had arrived in. It was about the distance of a city block away.

Without any definite plan, he jumped off the unconscious Martian, raced for the ship.

To an observer at the side, it would have appeared that the crowd of running men and the lone sprinter were speeding to meet each other. But it was a match-meet for the space ship between them. The men apparently inferred Ricker's goal. They increased their pace. Ricker dug in with his long legs.

The ship wasn't fifty feet away. The men weren't a hundred. Ricker's feet pounded the rock of the field like a race horse going down the home stretch. The wind whistled in his ears, he scarcely seemed to run, felt as if he was gliding. But the men were gaining. With each panting breath, the distance between them and the ship narrowed. He saw they would get to it before he did. And if they got there first—!

He remembered the gun, clutched forgotten in his swinging hand.

Without breaking his stride, Ricker brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. There was no report. A stream the color of molten lead hissed from the barrel, like tracer bullets from a machine gun. Several of the men fell forward kicking like shot deer. Black oily smoke curled up from the pack. The rest stopped. Then they scattered in all directions across the field leaving five writhing, smoking mounds on the ground behind them. The smell of burning flesh came to Ricker's flared nostrils.

Ricker squeezed the trigger. Men fell. 

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