But he hadn't seen me yet. I couldn't just hope for a rebel win. I took
off like an Olympic sprinter, racing toward that staggering silhouette
before me, my hands outstretched in the hopes of throttling him a bit
before I turned him over to the World Congress. Unless, of course, the
rebels ruled Marsport.
And then one of the more excitable Space Scouts blurted an involuntary,
"Get him!"
Baxter whirled, five feet away from my fingertips. His right hand came
swinging up toward my face.
And then I was coughing, and sneezing, and waving frantic hands at a
blazing something that engulfed my features.
By the time I realized it was only tunnel-fungus, and at the same
moment realized how Baxter had lighted his way out, he was on his way
into the terminal, his old legs whipping like pistons. Well, he'd be
the first to see who'd survived the battle. Clatclit and the others
had caught up to me, by then, and we moved in a desperate bunch toward
those lighted glass doors, in a last hope of getting our man before our
man's men got us.
Any second I expected a cordon of armed guards to come galloping out of
there with collapsers ablaze in our direction. Any moment now, we'd all
be separated into hot protons and flying clouds of electronic sparks.