“Test the prisoners and find out what they’re vulnerable to,” said Towers. “The Centrans are short on ammunition. Well, as we know, one Selected-Strain yellow jacket takes up less space than a bullet, but it doesn’t miss its target. Evasive action and obstructions don’t trouble it at all. The first thing we want to do is to ease the strain on the Centran ammunition supply. A few nests of these hair-trigger yellow jackets, halfway up the cliff, should settle the problem with great economy of force.”
“H-m-m,” said Logan. “Yes, we can put the feeder units about halfway between nests, and a little higher up, and the bugs will patrol the whole circumference of the cliff for us. Why not do that now, sir?”
“Because first we want to test these natives to be sure of their reactions. It might be, for instance, that a few dozen giant bumblebees will do the job better. There are a number of tests we have to make, then we’ll have a better idea where we stand. What we particularly want to avoid is any big crisis before we have a clear idea of what to do.”
Logan nodded thoughtfully. “I can take care of the arrangements for the first tests.” He looked at Towers and added apologetically, “If you don’t mind my making a suggestion, sir—”
“What?” said Towers, scowling.
“Well, you look a little tired, sir.”
It dawned on Towers that he was tired. He glanced out the windows, and saw that it was dark. He nodded, thought a moment, and got up. “I guess we can take care of the rest of this tomorrow.”
Towers slept long, and, till a little before daybreak, he slept fairly well, considering the number of bruised places it hurt to lie on. Some time before daybreak, however, he had the impression of something unpleasant just beyond the edge of his consciousness. He woke up, went back to sleep, woke up, rolled over, dozed, woke up again, dozed fitfully, woke up, and exasperatedly tried to locate the cause of the trouble. The cause eluded him. He got up in the darkness, and looked out at the gray light just starting to seep over the camp. An edge of the outer wall of the camp, visible from where he stood, was lit by a faint glow, apparently from searchlights shining down onto the cliffs. The room was cold, and in the faint light, the camp outside had a frosty look. In the sky over a nearby barrack glittered an unfamiliar constellation.
The light from the wall shone dimly on the roof of the barracks nearby, and Towers frowned and leaned forward, trying to make out what appeared to a be a short, slanting chimney-pipe thrust out of the roof at an angle.
Not far away, a board creaked.
Towers froze. Behind him, the latch of his door clicked.
Towers turned, felt on the stand by the head of his bed, and pulled his service automatic from its holster.
There was a sudden crash.
The door slammed in, smashed against the wall, and sagged by one hinge.
In the hall, dimly lit by the light at the far end, crouched a hairy primitive figure. Its face, half-obscured by shadow peered into the room. It took a little step forward, bent—
Towers squeezed a little tighter on the trigger—
There was a bellow that seemed to burst his eardrums.
The figure blurred.
The thin dazzling line from Towers’ fusion pistol vibrated in space before him.
Something slammed him heavily against the wall. There was the smell of burnt flesh, a tinkle of glass, and a sharp crack. For an instant, Towers saw something against the dim square of the sky, then it was gone. He felt carefully along the wall, holding the gun close to him, and snapped the room light on.
Lodged in the window, its back steaming and ruined from the fusion charge, was a humanoid.
Towers swallowed, studied it for an instant, noted the widening pool of blood on the floor beneath it, then stepped out in the hall, and glanced in both directions. The hall was empty.
From the end of the hall, where Logan’s room was, came a heavy crash.
Towers glanced up the hall, in the opposite direction, saw nothing, and sprinted down the hall toward Logan’s room.
Logan’s door was knocked from its hinges, the room was dark, and from inside came a grunt, a thump, and a straining, choking sound.
Towers felt for the room light, and couldn’t find it. He groped his way into room, reached out, felt a tough, hairy hide—
There was a yell that deafened him, and something smashed him across the side of the head. He saw an explosion of sparks, then was knocked back by a heavy numbing blow in the center of the chest. He hit the wall as if he had been thrown out of a second-story window, dropped to the floor instantly, and heard something slam into the wall over his head. He reached out, and his left hand closed around a thick-boned ankle with a coat of wiry hair. He gripped the ankle, levered it up, and with his other hand slammed back the knee of the same leg. The humanoid struggled to recover his balance. Towers lifted harder, and still gripping the ankle with one hand, sprang to his feet as the humanoid went over.
There was a loud crash.
Towers dropped the ankle, jumped for the spot where the humanoid had fallen, and smashed down hard with both heels as he came down.
There was an agonized grunt.
The lights came on.
On the floor lay a humanoid, staring up with an unfocused gaze.
Logan, one eye puffed nearly shut, a set of striped pajamas hanging from him in shreds, with blood running from a set of long gashes across his chest, had his right hand on the light switch, and his left arm dangling unnaturally at his side. His unswollen eye studied the humanoid.
“Look out,” said Logan hoarsely, “he’s going to—”
A hairy hand shot out to grip Towers’ left ankle like a vise. There was a fraction of a second’s hesitation. In that instant, Towers bent slightly at the knee, brought up his right foot, and smashed his right heel down on the humanoid’s head. The hand gripping his ankle relaxed. Towers spotted his gun across the room, and picked it up.
The humanoid started to sit up.
Towers smashed him across the head, and he fell back.
Towers straightened.
The humanoid’s eyes came open. He fixed Towers in a momentary unblinking stare, then his eyes fell shut, his head lolled to one side, his muscles relaxed—then abruptly he rolled over, sprang to his feet . . .
Towers shot him.
“Good,” breathed Logan.
From somewhere upstairs came a heavy crash, and an unearthly scream, followed by a rumbling grunt, then a heavy pummeling sound, as if a human body were being bounced off a wall like a handball. The barracks shook.
Towers saw a battered flashlight on the floor by an overturned table, grabbed it, snapped it on and went into the corridor, around a corner, and up the stairs to the second floor. He rounded a corner and found himself facing a short hall.
At the end of the hall, a door was slowly opening.
Towers stepped forward, and felt suddenly dizzy. He eased back around the corner, steadied his gun hand against the wall, and covered the door. The flashlight dimmed, and brightened again.
As he stood, tensely watching, Towers’ chest hurt so that it was hard to breath. His left ankle felt as if a vise were methodically crushing it, and every separate bone, muscle, and joint seemed suddenly to have developed its own individual ache. He thought dazedly that he should go down the hall to help whoever was in trouble there, but the sensations of his body told him that he was dangerously close to his own limits.
The sound of choked breathing came from the room in front of him, and it dawned on Towers that he could, at least, shout for help. He drew in a painful breath, then paused as a huge humanoid, larger than any of those he’d seen earlier, moved back-first and slowly out the door in the flickering flashlight beam.
In the dim light, Towers could see the humanoid’s arms stretched out, as if he were choking someone and pulling him out into the corridor.
The sense of weakness passed, and Towers stepped forward, to get a clear shot from the side.
The humanoid stumbled backward, and slammed into the wall of the corridor.
For an instant, Towers looked on blankly, wondering which of his men had the physique to shove back one of these creatures by raw strength.
The flashlight lit up more brightly, to show Towers the dark broad chest, huge arms, and massive head of a male gorilla, its big hands clamped around the humanoid’s throat, as it forced it down.