Before either Venard or La Crue could intercept the man with the knife, he had thrown himself upon Jhongan's unresisting body. With screaming nerves, Venard saw the knife rise and fall again and again, savagely. He saw the green life juices spurt like a monstrous fountain. He heard himself swearing madly as he pulled the death-drenched Guardsman off Jhongan's twitching body, felt his fists crunch and saw the psycho topple away, his face crushed in.
Venard and La Crue were leaning over Jhongan's punctured body sack. "He's dying," said La Crue hoarsely. "They die fast in Earth atmosphere. There's nothing anyone can do."
A tentacle reached up slowly, wrapped itself around Venard's hand. Venard heard the funny slurred tones of the Martie say in a dying whisper, "You promised. Don't fail. Promise you won't fail, Karl, old friend?"
"Yes," Venard gripped the tentacle. It went lax, plopped lifelessly down onto the cold damp stone.
"That's his answer," said Venard as he straightened wearily but with a stony resolution of face.
"Answer?" said La Crue. "To what?"
"I was going to ask him what would happen if he were captured by Martians. He knows the reason for this plan of helping transplant the Zharkon's brain. He answered that." He looked down at Jhongan. "He could have gotten away. He let the psycho kill him. Perhaps it was better that way. It saved him from having to kill himself."
La Crue, after a long silent moment, said, "How could anyone have planetary prejudice when a Martie is capable of such magnificent heroism for all civilized species?"
"They won't, someday," assured Venard, his jaw tense. "Someday, every species in the system will be judged only by their individual worth rather than by their physical appearance—thanks to the complete unselfishness of men like Jhongan."
"Anyway," said La Crue, "we know now that Jhongan's plan must be sound, if he believed in it so completely."