"In with you!" ordered Grantline. "Get your helmets on! How many? Six.
Enough--get back there, Williams--you were last. The lock won't hold
any more."
I was one of the six who jammed into the manual exit lock. We went
through it; in a moment we were outside. It was less than three
minutes since the prowling brigand had been seen.
Grantline touched me just as we emerged. "Don't wait for orders? Get
him."
"That fellow with the torch--"
"Yes. I'm with you."
We went out with a rush. We had already discarded our shoe and belt
weights. I leaped, regardless of my companions.
The scurrying Martians had disappeared. Through my visor bull's-eye I
could see only the Earthlit rocky surface of the ledge. Beside me
stretched the dark wall of our building.
I bounded toward the front. The brigand with the torch had been at the
front corner. I could not see him from here; he had been crouching
just around the angle.
I had a tiny bullet projector, the best weapon for short range
outdoors. I was aware of Grantline close behind me.
It took only a few of my giant leaps. I handed at the corner,
recovered my balance and whirled around to the front.
The Martian was here, a giant misshapen lump as he crouched. His torch
was a little stab of blue in the deep shadow enveloping him. Intent
upon his work, he did not see me. Perhaps he thought his fellow men
had broken our exits by now.
I landed like a leopard upon his back and fired, my weapon muzzle
ramming him. His torch fell hissing with a silent rain of blue fire
upon the rocks.
As my grip upon him made audiphone contact, his agonized scream
rattled the diaphragms of my ear grids with horrible, deafening
intensity.
He lay writhing under me; then was still. His scream choked into
silence. His suit deflated within my encircling grip. He was dead: my
leaden, steel-tipped pellet had punctured the double surface of his
Erentz fabric; penetrated his chest.