But, in the dim starlight from the small globes spotting the Satellite's ceiling, the path was an indistinct blur. A moving body's exact position.... And at fifty feet....
He saw Neilson—it could only be Neilson.
Moving on hands and knees, he was keeping low and to the side of the little-used trail—but within the width of the hand-patched net. And he moved slowly, probing before him with a stick or his needle-knife; Treb could not tell which.
Another two feet and he could trip the net. Neilson would be captured, alive, and the stalemate ended.
Now!
The net flung into the air, snapped tight about Neilson's thrashing body! He heard the pop of parting strands as Neilson slashed with his knife. And then he swung the butt of his carbine, twice, against the trapped man's skull.
Neilson went limp. It was finished. He could take his prisoner to the lock, summon the UN guards, and go home to the Krekar Hills. And an end to all blood-letting for him.
He set about binding tight the arms and legs of Neilson, and had barely completed his task when the prisoner groaned and struggled.
"So this is it, Treb?"
"Yes."