A figure separated itself from the armed mass. A flash of recognition came—partially his own, partially his host's. It was the small biped he had seen in the searchlight beam running toward the cubicle he had deserted so long ago it seemed.
The small creature began speaking, making soft, soothing noises, advancing all the while, a tiny glass vial in his hands.
Without knowing why, the Triomed felt his lips pull away from his teeth in a snarl. He heard a deep, rumbling growling sound in his own throat. The biped stopped, and the Triomed could smell his sudden fear.
He felt a surge of incomprehensible rage come over him—he crouched menacingly.
The creature took a step closer. Another. The Triomed tensed.
The creature was within reach, extending the vial. The alien could see that it was tipped with a sliver of steel. He sprang—
The weapons crashed. The alien felt the thudding impact of projectiles penetrating the brain case. In a panic he began to extrude from the pineal gland. If death overcame the host while he had rapport, he, too, would die. And if he died, Triom would die.
He felt his huge body totter. There was another blast from the weapons and he sensed the projectile coming—with what seemed to be agonizing slowness to his quickened senses. It was spinning in the darkness. It struck the eye, smashed it, moved inward, along the base of the brain....
The Triomed felt one deep, searing agony that was his alone as the bullet crushed him. The hot metal acrid touch was the last thing he knew before death came....