Drakeson's arms were held tight against his sides. He was straining—helpless. Through the glassine mask of his helmet, Greg saw Drakeson's face turning red with constriction.
His voice came to Greg in a burst of fear. "The gun, Greg! The heat-blaster—quick—"
Greg leaned forward, staring in rigid fascination. Fleshy stocks swayed toward him. Other mouths opened, petal mouths. Gigantic floral traps, and cannibal blooms.
"Greg! Greg!" Drakeson was framed now by that great cannibal maw.
Greg had the heat-blaster up. He had it leveled. But he couldn't depress the firing stud.
"Drake! I can't! I can't!"
How could any integrated man be deliberately destructive? How could any sane person—kill?
"I can't—Drake—" The awful conflict seemed to rip through his body. He felt the sweat, hot and profuse, rolling down his face. He concentrated on that gun, on his finger, on the firing stud.
The cannibal blossom was closing. Sticky juices dripped over Drakeson. He was screaming. Greg's finger lifted. He could not fire.
The Codes said no destruction. No killing. The Codes had been established after the great Chain disaster. Violence begets violence, the Codes said. And once begun, it was accumulative, like the snowball rolling down hill.