"Catch that? He tried to ram us! As he said—he's not afraid to kill or be killed." The engineer shuddered. "Do you think," he asked, "we'll have to kill him?"
Petersen frowned. "I hope not," he said, his eyes ahead of him as he prepared to land. "But if there's no other way—what else can we do?"
"How long since they killed a man—purposely, I mean?" The ship was rolling to a stop.
"I dunno. Maybe a hundred years; maybe more. And who that was, I don't know either."
The two left the plane and headed for the manager's office, their faces wry. Petersen was thinking of blood. He was hoping that if they had to kill the psycho they'd do it some dry, quiet way. And Handel, nursing a bruised lip, was hoping exactly the same thing. Mankind, after many years of mutual hatreds had at last reached unanimity, and an idealistic one at that.
The stolen plane crashed to a halt through the brush and bracken of the abandoned clearing. Markett looked about her.
"Do you know where we are?" asked Stevens.
"I think so," said the girl slowly. "It must be a park district that's being allowed to lie fallow. Probably it won't be touched by anyone for a few years. Or wouldn't have been."
Stevens stared at her. "You mean—?" he asked.
"I mean that in a matter of hours the world will be down on you. Sheer force of numbers will make you yield to them. Oh, Clark, can't you see that you're wrong?" Her eyes suddenly widened with dread as she saw his hands work convulsively.