He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at that
moment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair of
figures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts was
staggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,
bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but in
his good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried to
cover his comrade's sluggish retreat.
And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved with
astonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... a
dozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!