tage that we'd acted without hesitation, and
I don't think we'd have been able to do that except that we'd been all
set to kill each other when he dropped in. Our muscles and nerves and
minds were keyed for instant ruthless attack. And some "civilized"
people still say that the urge to murder doesn't contribute to
self-preservation!

* * * * *

We were almost close enough now and he was steeling himself to shoot and
I remember wondering for a split second what his damn gun did to you,
and then me and the girl had started the alternation routine. I'd stop
dead, as if completely cowed by the threat of his weapon, and as he took
note of it she'd go in a little further, and as his gaze shifted to her
she'd stop dead and I'd go in another foot and then try to make my halt
even more convincing as his gaze darted back to me. We worked it
perfectly, our rhythm was beautiful, as if we were old dancing partners,
though the whole thing was absolutely impromptu.

Still, I honestly don't think we'd ever have got to him if it hadn't
been for the distraction that came just then to help us. I could tell,
you see, that he'd finally steeled himself and we still weren't quite
close enough. He wasn't as tame as I'd hoped. I reached behind me for
Mother, determined to do a last-minute rush and leap anyway, when there
came this sick scream.

I don't know how else to describe it briefly. It was a scream, feminine
for choice, it came from some distance and the direction of the old
cracking plant, it had a note of anguish and warning, yet at the same
time it was weak and almost faltering you might say and squeaky at the
end, as if it came from a person half dead and a throat choked with
phlegm. It had all those qualities or a wonderful mimicking of them.

And it had quite an effect on our boy in gray for in the act of shooting
me down he started to turn and look over his shoulder.

Oh, it didn't altogether stop him from shooting me. He got me partly
covered again as I was in the middle of my lunge. I found out what his
gun did to you. My right arm, which was the part he'd covered, just went
dead and I finished my lunge slamming up against his iron knees, like a
highschool kid trying to block out a pro footballer, with the knife
slipping uselessly away from my fingers.

But in the blessed meanwhile the girl had lunged too, not with a slow
slash, thank God, but with a high, slicing thrust aimed arrow-straight