To an observer at the side, it would have appeared that the crowd of running men and the lone sprinter were speeding to meet each other. But it was a match-meet for the space ship between them. The men apparently inferred Ricker's goal. They increased their pace. Ricker dug in with his long legs.
The ship wasn't fifty feet away. The men weren't a hundred. Ricker's feet pounded the rock of the field like a race horse going down the home stretch. The wind whistled in his ears, he scarcely seemed to run, felt as if he was gliding. But the men were gaining. With each panting breath, the distance between them and the ship narrowed. He saw they would get to it before he did. And if they got there first—!
He remembered the gun, clutched forgotten in his swinging hand.
Without breaking his stride, Ricker brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. There was no report. A stream the color of molten lead hissed from the barrel, like tracer bullets from a machine gun. Several of the men fell forward kicking like shot deer. Black oily smoke curled up from the pack. The rest stopped. Then they scattered in all directions across the field leaving five writhing, smoking mounds on the ground behind them. The smell of burning flesh came to Ricker's flared nostrils.
Ricker squeezed the trigger. Men fell. Black oily smoke curled up. The others scattered, leaving five smoking mounds behind.
He was at the ship. He snatched open the door, leaped in and slammed it behind him.
He didn't remember taking off. The next thing he knew, he was in the air, circling high above the field.