They turned. Rusty saw three Bugs crawl into the dim light. Yellow horrors, they moved swiftly. Sharp feelers waving, they advanced like giant cockroaches. Others came behind them. They swarmed into the clearing.
He turned to run. There was no fighting them. There was no running away—Bugs poured from all sides. Lord! must he die now? When a chance was so near? They were surrounded. He stood staring, the others behind him, weaponless.
Rusty remembered one man he had seen after their work. He sickened at the picture. Blood was what they smelled, what they sought. Those feelers chopped at one's legs, severed the feet, hovered with sucking mouths about the face of the victim, still alive.
The Bugs came on.
One neared Rusty. A tendril knifed at him. He kicked madly into the yellow mass, felt the pulpy insect crush under the blow. The ground was a blanket of writhing yellow, spreading toward them. He hoped it would be quick. But it never was. One died slowly. The life sucked from him. Rusty kicked at another. The others were stamping wildly.
"Into the ship!" yelled Spike.
The tubes! They would be safe there. Rusty leaped a slashing wave as there was a rush for the ship. He went into the ochre, crawling things with one bound, into a drift-can with another. He clanged the port over him, heard the others slam shut.