This World is Ours!

Orion was something new in science fiction magazines; it printed stories about aliens and passed them off as the truth—which they were!
He must die. It will look like an accident.
Shouldn't we take him back with us?
We are far from through here. Don't tell me you are developing a sympathy for these miserable creatures?
Impossible. I merely assumed he might be of some further value in our great crusade.
He must die.
Max Field was listening at the door. He moved back so he could breathe again. Those dozens of little wounds in his chest and on his arms and neck stung like fire. His amiable young features were tense but resigned. This was the end, period....
Outside the little cabin an owl hooted. It was a lonely sound. But it was a familiar earth sound, and it brought a lump to his throat.
If only there was some way to outwit them. But he had thought of everything; apparently so had they. That window, for instance, was shuttered and bolted from outside. A sudden noise would bring them in here in no time. The back wall was up against a cliff. There was no outside door in this room.
He was supposed to be drunk, befuddled. But he hadn't drank any of the champagne. In that, at least, he had outwitted them. He was to die. No question about that. The only question remaining was—how.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out the little notebook he'd been, at odd moments, scribbling the whole story in. Force of habit, perhaps. Max was a science fiction writer. He flipped through the pencilled pages. Worth money, this story. He smiled ironically. Yet who would read it, much less believe it.
Somebody might, he decided. He would hide it somewhere in this room. Maybe slip it through a crack in the flooring, a few pages at a time.