Before he could turn the gun, Rusty was upon him.
They crashed to the ground. Rusty's spring carried him over the man, who was on his feet instantly, gun poised.
The gun was silent. Rusty rolled cautiously over.
He saw the bulk of the Vulcanian looming behind the crimson man. A huge hand had crushed his shoulder.
Lothar raised the Martian, bashed him against the side of the ship. He fell limply, did not move.
Rusty got up. There were seven dead men in the plane. One was before him, broken and bleeding. Another lay somewhere in the shadows. The nine men he had seen at the table in the station were dead. Was it his fault? He had killed none of them. No? They had been protecting their rights, their property. They had died doing so.
Fish climbed down from the ship. He kicked aside the body on the ground. Lothar laughed deep in his chest.
"We're wasting time," said Spike with a grin. He turned to the designated ship.
Rusty wondered if he could write of these things. The Tele-news seemed but a hazy memory.