Four quick, silent spurts of flame, and four of the aliens lay dead,
charred through by the noiseless, almost invisible energy of the
Spauldings. The unfortunate aliens had had no way of knowing where it
had come from, that death that had hit four of their number in as many
seconds. The burst of light from the semi-portable burner had blanketed
every trace of the faint radiation from Marten's pistols.
Huddling low, Marten ran for a nearby girder, taking advantage of the
fact that the aliens' attentions were still directed toward the airlock
of his ship. Naturally, they wouldn't notice a figure running from the
rear.
He took a position behind the girder and, aiming carefully, picked off
four more of the aliens. He tried to put his shot just back of the
oversized, toad-like heads of the Flesso, though it didn't matter much
where the beam landed. The result was the same.
The survivors were conferring hissingly and evincing great confusion.
Apparently they still thought the fire was coming from somewhere within
the ship, but they were unable to figure out where.
There were eight of them left. Marten picked off one of them with
his ninth charge, then held fire. He had one charge left, and then
there would be a thirty-second delay while the Spaulding's recharged
themselves. He didn't want to leave himself defenseless even for
thirty seconds.
He counted off. Ten, fifteen, twenty--one gun was charged. He raised
it, readied to fire, when he heard a sudden tell-tale hiss from behind
him.
He whirled, but it was too late. A searing beam of energy cracked into
him, hurling him backward. He clung to consciousness an instant, then
blacked out as the beam shorted his neural circuits.
* * * * *
When he awoke, Marten opened his eyes, blinked, closed them again.
"Ugh," he said.