He worked with fog-wet fingers, not aided in the least by the sweat that suddenly began to drip down his arm and fingers, to clear the key. It was ticklish work for the exposed speck of biaton might explode at too rough contact.
The Frog raced closer, his ghastly purple-rimmed eyes and mouth strained, and his croaking warcry booming triumphantly.
There was an explosion of rockets overhead, growing more audible with every second; the butrad, hearing the sound, slowed his pace momentarily. That instant gave Jay time to holster his little expoder and snatch up one of the clumsy spears at his feet.
He threw the weapon, scooped up another, and flung it. Both spears found sleek gray flesh, one in the stomach and the other in the batrachian's neckless throat. The giant Frog staggered and lurched forward uncertainly. Jay's fist swung up, smashing into the broad noseless face, and the native went down.
One by one the three animats and the two women climbed to where he stood. He saw Onin hurl a last grenade downward and then climb upward again. The bony-framed man's breathing was ragged as he reached the level and blood was dripping off his limp left hand from a spear wound in his shoulder.
Onin sank down on the rocky level ground beyond the riven rocks. He groped in his pouch with his good hand.
"The rocket flares," he murmured huskily.
The distant thunder of jets had swelled louder. There were several ships, Jay decided, the cadence of their rockets differed. In a matter of seconds they would be almost directly overhead.
He ran out into the undulating grassy flat, knelt, and twisted off the flare's cap. He adjusted the height for six thousand feet and depressed the firing stud. The rocket flare sped skyward, growling unevenly as its speed built up.
A moment later a mushrooming blossom of orange light rode above them.