e skies of Earth.
She moved toward him.

"Hey, what did you do that for?"

"Just an impulse. I always kiss men who tell me I'm a nice kid."

"Nice kid, nice kid, nice kid," McLean said.

"You're too eager." The blush on her cheeks was visible through the
sand. Hastily she applied her eye to the sight of the Rangeley. McLean
sighed. He had never had a girl. It seemed to him that fate was playing
him a cruel joke to try to give him one under these conditions, in a
hole in the sand with wild Martian tribesmen surrounding him. He
mentally estimated the distance to the desert buggy, considered their
chances of making this trip and arriving alive. He was shaking his head
at his own estimate when the Rangeley burped again.

"I missed!" the girl said. "Oh! Here he comes!"

McLean shoved her away from the sight. The Martian was moving toward
them, fast. Instead of a gun, he had a spear.

"You didn't miss," the roustabout said. "You hit him but you only
wounded him. This is his death charge!"

* * * * *

He pressed the trigger of the Rangeley. The gun burped twice. In the
distance the exploding slugs threw up small geysers in the sand. The
native kept coming. In the sight, he looked to be ten feet tall.
Vaulting the Rangeley, he seemed to grow even more in stature. He
screamed at the top of his lungs as he thrust downward with the spear.

McLean shoved the girl away from him, rolled in the other direction. He
caught a glimpse of a metal spear point burying itself in the sand in
the exact spot where he had been lying. The roustabout wrapped both arms
around the legs of the Martian and yanked hard. The fellow came down, on
top of McLean. The human shoved him aside.

The Martian was a twisting, squirming, raging, biting, clawing, kicking
wild tangle of knobby knees and knobbier elbows. Whichever of these
knobby joints hit, it hurt. The fellow had a knife in his belt, which he
was struggling to get free. McLean, seeing the knife, was trying equally
hard to keep him from getting it.

The human caught the hilt of the knife with his left hand. With his
right fist, he struck at the native's stomach. Grunting, the Martian
opened his mouth and tried to bite McLean. The roustabout, no stranger
to this kind of fighting, butted him in the open mouth with the top of
his head, then struck again, savagely, at the stomach. He felt his fist
sink home in the leathery tissue there.

The native grunted a