As Ricker stared back, almost absently, Vanger's left fist whipped up, banged into his chin, knocked him backward upon the hard ground.
Stunned by the unexpected blow, Ricker got to his hands and knees shakily. He rubbed his numb jaw, gazed at the Martian through a quick red film of rage.
Vanger took careful aim at him. "Die, Earthman," he said softly. "Die with a blackened face, as all your brothers will."
Ricker didn't wait. The crouch he found himself in was not unlike the position in four years of college football. He hurtled at the man like a blocking-back gone wild.
Hiss-s-s!
White flames streamed over his head. White flame singed his hair and clothing, bathed his face in quick burning sweat. He struck Vanger high in the belly, carried him down in a perfect tackle.
Vanger's head knocked against the ground. Ricker's fingers shot to his throat like a striking cobra. But there wasn't time to throttle the man. He let him go, drew his right fist back just six inches and stabbed into the Martian's chin. Vanger's head slammed against the ground again. He lay still.
Ricker snatched the pistol from his limp hand, heard shouts and glanced about frantically.
He saw men running toward him across the field, about ten of them with others trailing in the distance. They must have seen the fight from the factory. They came on like a drove of stampeding horses. Between himself and the charging crowd, Ricker saw the ship he had arrived in. It was about the distance of a city block away.
Without any definite plan, he jumped off the unconscious Martian, raced for the ship.