Funny, he thought, how calm he was. Like he had been in the Silver Moon that night. There was something about a gun. It changed him, turned him into another man.
He didn't have a chance, he knew. Hoffman would shoot before he could ever get the gun around. But despite that, he felt foolishly sure....
Hoffman's gun flashed in the weak sunlight, blooming with blue brilliance.
For an instant, a single fraction of a second, Meek saw the flash of the beam straight in his eyes, but even before he could involuntarily flinch, the beam had bent. True to its mark, it would have drilled Meek straight between the eyes ... but it didn't go straight to its mark. Instead, it bent and slapped itself straight between the Prowler's eyes.
And the Prowler danced a little jig of happiness as the blue spear of energy knifed into its metal body.
"Cripes," gasped Stiffy, "he draws it! He ain't satisfied with just taking it when you give it to him. He reaches out and gets it. Just like a lightning rod reaching up and grabbing lightning."
Puzzlement flashed across Hoffman's face, then incredulity and finally something that came close to fear. The gun's beam snapped off and his hands sagged. The gun dropped in the dust. The Prowler stood stock still.
"Well, Hoffman?" Meek asked quietly and his voice seemed to run all along the street.
Hoffman's face twitched.
"Get down and fight like a man," he rasped.