It all seemed like a dream to Vorgens, under the effect of the mescal. Every move they made—friend and foe alike—had that underwater languor about it. He saw the Komani drawing their sidearms, saw Gerry slowly rising to his feet.
Then the nearest Komani began to rum toward him. Vorgens raised the stinger (it seemed an eternity to lift it) and touched it to the warrior’s chest. He froze for an instant, then began slumping toward the ground.
Vorgens turned to see Mclntyre swinging his arm-cast into the face of a startled Komani. Another was already on the way down, his head split and bleeding. Giradaux chopped artfully at the neck of the warrior he had toppled, and the fight was abruptly finished. Vorgens’ stunned victim finally hit the ground, as if to punctuate the end of it.
They took the Komani sidearms and made a cautious retreat to the edge of the camp. It was late, and the camp was quiet. No one seemed to be stirring.
Vorgens whispered an order to set the captured handguns to stun, rather than on killing power. Mclntyre grumbled something about “fighting tomorrow the enemies we don’t kill tonight,” but a quick glance at the Star Watchman showed that he was not going to argue the point.
Their first trouble came at the outer guard perimeter.
A Komani warrior spotted them and let out a warning yelp before Mclntyre’s shot knocked him unconscious.
Then it was an agonizing race in slow motion for the edge of the meadow. Beacon flares began to pop around them, and although Vorgens knew that the three of them were dashing for the thick foliage at the meadow’s edge, the mescal made it seem as though they were suspended in mid-flight while the whole Komani camp had plenty of time to take leisurely aim at them,