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vague, darker silhouette against the brambles and weeds and pale, white blossoms of Queen Anne's
Lace. Birrel stepped toward it, and as he did so he took out a tiny pocket-lamp and flashed it briefly,
once.
He was sweating now. If Tauncer had arranged a specific recognition signal, he would be cut down
before he took ten more steps. He had to gamble on the chance that the homing-beam from the flitter
would be the only signal. It had seemed like a good gamble, until now. Now it did not seem so good.
Several eternities went by while he took four more steps forward. Then there was a familiar grinding
sound and a door in the side of the scout opened, showing, inside it, a small airlock, illuminated by the
faintest of blue light.
Birrel swallowed hard. His gamble had paid off. He was going to live, but maybe only two minutes more,
if things went wrong.
A uniformed man appeared in the faint, blue light of the airlock, and stood in a waiting attitude. That
would be the captain of the scout-vessel, Birrel thought. He surely would be there to meet Tauncer on a
mission so important as this one. He did not see anyone else, but he knew very well that one crewman
would be standing just inside, at the air-lock panel.
Birrel walked forward in the darkness. He raised his voice, in as good an imitation of Tauncer's as he
could muster, speaking in sharp complaint.
"You should have been earlier! Don't show any lights we've got to get out of here fast!"
"Earlier? said the man in the airlock. Why, you said yourself "
Birrel drew the shocker from his pocket and let go with it, at eight paces distance. The man who was
speaking shut up and fell.
Now was the time, the decisive moment. Birrel ran forward the few yards to the airlock, his feet almost
tripping in the briars. He ran into the lock just as an Orionid crewman with an incredulous expression on
his face stepped in from the other side, staring at the officer lying on the floor. Birrel dropped him with a
burst from the shocker and leaped over him as he fell, heading for the inner door.
His luck suddenly ran out. There was another crewman in the corridor, just beyond the lock panel, and
he was drawing his side-arm. Birrel fired and ducked. He did not duck fast enough and the burst from
the other's shocker grazed his right side and that whole part of his body went numb and be started to fall.
He would not fall, damn it. He lurched against the smooth metal wall, leaning to support himself. The
shocker had fallen from his hand, and, while he had dropped the man in the corridor, he could hear
voices, somewhere beyond, now raised in alarm. Where were Garstang and the others? What were they
doing out there, anyway?
Then he heard them in the darkness outside, thrashing like cows through the brush and high grass. He
also heard an alarm siren go off forward in the scout. He ought to do something, to move, but, for the
moment, he was as helpless as an old woman, leaning against the wall and trying not to fall down on the
unconscious man, who had done this to him.
Garstang and Vinson came pounding into the lock, carrying the heavy shocker between them. Garstang
looked professionally worried, but Vinson was the excited amateur at fighting, his eyes popping.
"Get it in here! Birrel said. He meant to shout it, but his voice came out as a croak.
The big shocker was no more use in the airlock than it would have been from outside. Even a small scout
had enough shielding in its hull to stop stuff like this, and the shielding in any ship was continued through
the inner wall of its airlock.
"Are you hurt? said Vinson. What "
Garstang said, Come on. He hauled Vinson after him, the heavy squat machine precariously carried
between them, past Birrel and the sprawled figure on the floor.
He slammed the thing down on the floor, with its projection-grid facing down the corridor, and flipped
the switch. As though they had timed it for that, two men, who wore the striding warrior on their jackets,
popped into the farther end of the corridor. They had weapons in their hands, but did not use them. They
seemed to skate and slide majestically forward before they crumpled up under the soundless and invisible
blast.
With an effort, Birrel croaked to Garstang, Sweep it, Joe, what's the matter with you?"
"The damn thing's heavy, didn't you know? panted Garstang. The shocker was still on, still humming,
and Garstang was trying to pivot it around so that its blast would sweep the interior of the whole scout,
through the light bulkheads that could not shield against it. Vinson was trying to help him, but he did not
understand exactly what Garstang was doing and he was more hindrance than help. Birrel tried to get
down to help, but his numbed leg instantly gave way under him and he sat down and thought what a
ridiculous leader he made, sitting here on his backside, in the corridor. Then, as Mallinson's men came
running in from outside, he got his voice enough to yell at them, Help Garstang!"
Kane understood instantly what Garstang was doing. He sprang forward, shoving Vinson out of the way,
and grabbed one side of the big shocker. He and Garstang rocked and tilted the heavy thing.
In the farther parts of the scout-craft there was bedlam going on, a sound of things breaking and men's
voices raised in inarticulate cries. A tall man, with a lieutenant's tabs on his shoulders, came at a
staggering run into the passage. Vinson raised his old shocker, but there was no need, the man fell and
lay still. Birrel, struggling to scramble again to his feet, felt the metal floor and walls quivering with the
jarring force that was blasting through the whole ship.
He said in a moment, That should be enough. Shut it off and go on in. You help me, Vinson."
Garstang and Kane and the rest of Mallinson's men went down the corridor in a rush. Mallinson himself
was behind Birrel, looking a little white-lipped, as though violence was a new and upsetting thing to him,
but looking determined, also.
Vinson was shaking a little as he helped Birrel up and steadied him with a husky arm. He kept babbling,
Have we done it? Have we taken the ship?"
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