* * * * *

Feebly he tried to fend them off, but the shodden hoofs smashed him
down again, gouged at his unprotected face. He struggled, but soon he
would not struggle any more.

From afar came to his dimming ears below, a huge shout that shook the
ground. Feet pounded him down into semi-unconsciousness; there was a
mighty shuffling to and fro over him, and then the feet were gone. A
huge well-remembered hand, caught him, heaved him upright. It was
Grim. His face was a wreck, battered out of all semblance, but those
blue mild eyes were flaming with an unholy light.

Hilary tottered, and the giant shook him.

"Wake up," he bawled; "they're coming again."

With a great effort Hilary cleared his numbed brain, saw the
resurgence of the temporarily beaten herd. His fists clenched
automatically.

"Good boy," Grim whooped. "Let's get them."

Then they were engulfed, fighting back to back. Hilary seemed to be
fighting in a dream. He never had a clear conception of what happened.
Faces thrust themselves into his own, furious, contorted; his fist
went out mechanically, thudded against something soft, and the face
disappeared. Hands reached plucking for him; he thrust them off, and
swung left and right again.

Once he looked dully upward. The sky was gray slate now, festooned
with bellying black. No sign of the sun; not the least ray could
pierce. The fliers hung aimless overhead, no sparkle to their hulls.
The valley was dark too; the terrible rays had ceased raking it with
an inferno of heat.

* * * * *

Just before he lowered his upflung face to smash his fist into another
face, something wet blobbed on his forehead. A raindrop? Perhaps, but
he was too far gone to care now. Life was an endless series of howling
Mercutians to thrust fists into.

A cheer rose high, punctured by quick sharp explosions of sound. Guns.
Those few remaining of the fighting Earthmen farther up the valley, no
longer menaced by the futile fliers, had come down to help their
weaponless brethren. Wat's voice was shrill in the land, yelling,
exhorting, screaming. A familiar _rat-a-tat-a-tat_ came down the
wind. The submachine gun was spitting steel-jacketed death. Where was
Joan? Hilary wondered wearily.

A face towered over him, a face he knew. Urga. The Mercutian was no
longer impassive; his gray countenance was distorted with hideous
hate. "I'll break you in two," he mouthed,