ing to cut a toggle
was lying by his knee. He snatched it up and chopped the stinger before
it could strike again, then yanked off the glove and looked at his hand.
A thin scratch, beaded with drops of blood, showed on the flesh.
Unhesitatingly, he drew the razor edge of the hatchet across it, sucked
and spat, sucked and spat again and again. Then he started for home.

He barely made it. By the time he got to the hole, he was a very sick
man. He latched the door, stumbled into the cabin and fell on the bed.

It was several days before he was able to be about again, his hand still
partly paralyzed.

During that time, the situation changed. The Harn took the offensive.

Ed's first notice of this was a rhythmic crashing outside the cabin. He
managed to crawl to where he could see the gate he had built to block
the hole into the other world. It was shaking from repeated batterings
from the other side. Dragging his rifle with his good hand, he scrabbled
down to where he could see through the chinks in the slab door. Two of
the carrier units were there, taking turns slamming their full weight
against it. He had built that gate skookum, but not to take something
like that.

He noted carefully where they were hitting it, then backed off twenty
feet and laid the .450 across a log. He let them hit the door twice more
to get the timing before he loosed off a shot, at the moment of impact.
The battering stopped abruptly, and through the chinks he could see a
bulk piled against the gate.

For a while there was no more action. Then, after a few tentative butts
at the door, the battering started again. This time, Ed wasn't so lucky.
The battering stopped when he fired, but he got an impression that the
carrier ran off. He thought he might have hit it, but not mortally.

In an hour or so the Harn was back, and it kept coming back. Ed began to
worry about his ammunition, which was not unlimited. Ordinarily, two or
three boxes lasted him through the winter. He got his .30-06, for which
he had a sugar sack full of military ammunition. The light full-patch
stuff did not have the discouraging effect of the .450, though, and he
had to shoot a lot oftener.

Another thing, he wasn't getting any rest, which was bad in his already
weakened condition. Every time he dozed off the battering would start
again, and he would have to wake up and snap a few shots through the
door. He held pretty much on one spot, not wanting to shoot the door to