I saw about a half-dozen dogs on the hill behind and above Blekeke. They
were squatting on their haunches, noses pointed at the spaceship, and
they were creating the damnedest racket I had ever heard. Surely the
cops would at least _suspect_ something!
Blekeke was walking stiffly, slowly, keeping the blaster pointed at us,
making a visible effort not to turn around.
"Hey, you goddam dogs!" one of the policemen on the beach shouted.
"Shut the hell up!" He picked up a rock and threw it, but he was too far
away. The missile whizzed low over my head. I ducked instinctively,
turning to see where the stone hit. It missed the dogs by a good fifteen
or twenty feet.
Other policemen were appearing from the direction of the road, running
anxiously toward the dogs, looking in the direction the dogs were
pointing.
And seeing nothing.
Other dogs were appearing, too, some well within the vision of
Blekeke--but another quick glance showed me that he was staring rigidly
ahead and walking steadily.
We were entering the shadow of the spaceship. Less than twenty feet to
go. Even in the dim light, I could almost distinguish the features of
the Martian waiting there to haul us aboard.
* * * * *
The policemen on the beach were now walking back to join the others. The
one who had yelled and thrown the stone now whistled shrilly, and
shouted, "Commere, you lousy, flea-bitten mutts, and shut up!"
He whistled again. Insistently.
One dog stopped howling and slunk forward timidly, then halted.
The whistle was a shrill command.