"It's the bone from the shoulder to neck, Mike. That's the vulnerable
part." He launched into a description of his hopeless task of trying to
destroy Klash. "Then at the end, Mike, I jumped up and socked him in
the neck and in that hollow in the shoulder.
"He winced, Mike, and I'll swear that he flinched in pain. Then he
knocked me out."
"But how do you know it isn't the neck?"
"I told you I had that rope around his neck."
"Maybe he had a stomach ache or something that brought that look to his
face."
"Holy Mother, Mike, if he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him,
do you think he'd wait until then to feel painful?"
"Maybe it was the poison, Sean, just taking hold?"
"No, Mike, he grimaced just when my fist struck that bone. It was the
first sign of pain during the whole time. That's got to be it, Mike.
Kraks aren't invulnerable. They've just been careful not to let us find
out."
"Why didn't they kill you then, when you found out?"
Sean shrugged the thought away. "Maybe Klash didn't tell them. Maybe
it's just luck. I don't know. But I do know this, Mike, it's the first
time that a Krak ever departed from that poker face."
Mike sat there, pessimism fighting with this new thread of hope.
"Okay," he said finally. "I guess we can try it, anyway. Though I don't
think much of the idea. But it's a chance. And I sure would like to get
Marcia back on earth."
"To meet Jane?" Sean asked quietly. Mike looked at him, almost like a
boy caught with his hand in the jam jar.
It was some hours later, when Sean slapped the sandal against the palm
of his hand and muttered:
"Sandals aren't much good as weapons, but they'll have to do." He
looked at Mike and the other eleven men that the two of them had
convinced, in whispers so that the audios would pick up only sounds and
not the words of their plan.