dark hall. Kunosh closed the door and they stood again in darkness.
“Be careful now,” the old man whispered. “We are right next door to the Central Control Hall, where . . . the monsters . . . are holding our leaders prisoners. This is the heart and brain of our world. This little hallway runs right next to it and I can lead you to an entrance that will take you right near these . . . usurpers. Follow me quietly.”
He started off in the narrow darkness and Nelson followed at his heels, holding the ers-gun and wondering desperately just what course he would follow. Now that he was close to the end of his mission, he became sharply aware of how little he knew, how little Kunosh had actually told him.
For instance, how many of the enemy were there? Were they armed? How would he know them when he saw them? And a last thought suddenly popped into his head—exactly what would the ers-gun do? Did it shoot a pellet as a pistol would? Was it a ray projector of some sort and if so, what sort of ray? Would things explode? If it was atomic in nature, it would be extremely dangerous to fire it in a closed room . . . deadly as well to the one who fired as to the one who got shot.
It occurred to him then that perhaps Kunosh knew that, knew the shooter would die also, and that accounted for his own reluctance to handle the gun. Nelson might thus be a convenient guinea pig. On the other hand, the obvious rabbit-nature of the people and Kunosh’s fanaticism argued against that theory.
Nelson's gloved hand felt sweaty as he held the strange weapon. He knew he would have to make up his mind in a matter of split seconds if he had to fire it. He didn’t know what he would do.
Kunosh came to a stop, and Nelson crowded up close to him. The Deimosian whispered, “I’m going to open the door now. You rush in. The fiends—the fiends wear stripes!”
Suddenly there was a crack of dull light which widened as a door silently rolled back into the wall. The room into which Nelson looked was dimly lit, long but narrow. There were various desks and platforms up and down its length. It looked like a combination business office, spaceship control room, and electronic communications relay station. There was a small group of men, perhaps a dozen in all, standing around a lighted panel in the wall opposite Nelson, apparently discussing the glowing sets of hieroglyphics and Deimos language notations showing there.
It was a marvelous stroke of luck that none of the men were looking their way. Nelson stepped softly inside the chamber. Now he saw that among the dozen figures were five wearing garments which were striped red and black up and down from neck to ankle. These, then, were enemy.
Nelson looked down at the weapon in his hand, estimating whether he should chance using it. He raised it but then was startled to realize that it had no indication of any directional finder. Its operating end seemed glassy and wide and there was no way of telling whether it would spray all in sight or only one small spot.
He could not aim it at any individual without taking the chance of hitting all. But the weapon seemed heavy and strong. He reversed it and, walking softly and swiftly up to the group, swung it back over his head and brought the heavy butt end down on the skull of the nearest striped man.
The man fell as if struck by lightning. The others turned with cries of consternation and fright.
Now suddenly feeling the flush of anger and remembering the vicious way Jim Worden had been killed, Nelson whirled upon the other four foemen.
There were screams of terror from everyone in the room. The blue-clad Deimosians dashed around in sheer panic. The red-and-black characters seemed equally alarmed, and in their confusion Nelson was able to knock down a second with a swing of his gun.
Then the other three launched themselves at him. He felt a fist crash against his face and was surprised to find it so light.
“Be careful now,” the old man whispered. “We are right next door to the Central Control Hall, where . . . the monsters . . . are holding our leaders prisoners. This is the heart and brain of our world. This little hallway runs right next to it and I can lead you to an entrance that will take you right near these . . . usurpers. Follow me quietly.”
He started off in the narrow darkness and Nelson followed at his heels, holding the ers-gun and wondering desperately just what course he would follow. Now that he was close to the end of his mission, he became sharply aware of how little he knew, how little Kunosh had actually told him.
For instance, how many of the enemy were there? Were they armed? How would he know them when he saw them? And a last thought suddenly popped into his head—exactly what would the ers-gun do? Did it shoot a pellet as a pistol would? Was it a ray projector of some sort and if so, what sort of ray? Would things explode? If it was atomic in nature, it would be extremely dangerous to fire it in a closed room . . . deadly as well to the one who fired as to the one who got shot.
It occurred to him then that perhaps Kunosh knew that, knew the shooter would die also, and that accounted for his own reluctance to handle the gun. Nelson might thus be a convenient guinea pig. On the other hand, the obvious rabbit-nature of the people and Kunosh’s fanaticism argued against that theory.
Nelson's gloved hand felt sweaty as he held the strange weapon. He knew he would have to make up his mind in a matter of split seconds if he had to fire it. He didn’t know what he would do.
Kunosh came to a stop, and Nelson crowded up close to him. The Deimosian whispered, “I’m going to open the door now. You rush in. The fiends—the fiends wear stripes!”
Suddenly there was a crack of dull light which widened as a door silently rolled back into the wall. The room into which Nelson looked was dimly lit, long but narrow. There were various desks and platforms up and down its length. It looked like a combination business office, spaceship control room, and electronic communications relay station. There was a small group of men, perhaps a dozen in all, standing around a lighted panel in the wall opposite Nelson, apparently discussing the glowing sets of hieroglyphics and Deimos language notations showing there.
It was a marvelous stroke of luck that none of the men were looking their way. Nelson stepped softly inside the chamber. Now he saw that among the dozen figures were five wearing garments which were striped red and black up and down from neck to ankle. These, then, were enemy.
Nelson looked down at the weapon in his hand, estimating whether he should chance using it. He raised it but then was startled to realize that it had no indication of any directional finder. Its operating end seemed glassy and wide and there was no way of telling whether it would spray all in sight or only one small spot.
He could not aim it at any individual without taking the chance of hitting all. But the weapon seemed heavy and strong. He reversed it and, walking softly and swiftly up to the group, swung it back over his head and brought the heavy butt end down on the skull of the nearest striped man.
The man fell as if struck by lightning. The others turned with cries of consternation and fright.
Now suddenly feeling the flush of anger and remembering the vicious way Jim Worden had been killed, Nelson whirled upon the other four foemen.
There were screams of terror from everyone in the room. The blue-clad Deimosians dashed around in sheer panic. The red-and-black characters seemed equally alarmed, and in their confusion Nelson was able to knock down a second with a swing of his gun.
Then the other three launched themselves at him. He felt a fist crash against his face and was surprised to find it so light.
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