Abe bit out, his teeth grinding under the punishment he was taking,
"That's an order, _Comrade Cunningham_! Get the gun!"
"No. No, I can't!" She turned and fled the room.
Abe muttered an obscenity, bridged and crabbed out of the desperate
position he was in. And now his fingers were but a few inches from the
weapon. He stretched.
Homer Crawford, heavy veins in his own forehead from his exertions,
panted, "Abe, I can't let you get that gun. Call it quits."
"Can't, Homer," Abe gritted. His fingers were a few fractions of an inch
from the weapon.
Crawford panted, "Abe, there's just one thing I can do. A karate blow.
_I_ can chop your windpipe with the side of my hand. Abe, if I do, only
immediate surgery could save your--"
Abe's fingers closed about the gun and Crawford, calling on his last
resources, lashed out. He could feel the cartilage collapse, a sound of
air, for a moment, almost like a shriek filled the room.
The gun was meaningless now. Homer Crawford, his face agonized, was on
his knees beside the other who was threshing on the floor. "Abe," he
groaned. "You made me."
Abe Baker's face was quickly going ashen in his impossible quest for
oxygen. For a last second there was a gleam in his eyes and his lips
moved. Crawford bent down. He wasn't sure, but he thought that somehow
the other found enough air to get out a last, "Crazy man."
When it was over, Homer Crawford stood again, and looked down at the
body, his face expressionless.