Other dogs were appearing, too, some well within the vision of Blekeke—but another quick glance showed me that he was staring rigidly ahead and walking steadily.
We were entering the shadow of the spaceship. Less than twenty feet to go. Even in the dim light, I could almost distinguish the features of the Martian waiting there to haul us aboard.
The policemen on the beach were now walking back to join the others. The one who had yelled and thrown the stone now whistled shrilly, and shouted, "Commere, you lousy, flea-bitten mutts, and shut up!"
He whistled again. Insistently.
One dog stopped howling and slunk forward timidly, then halted.
The whistle was a shrill command.
I heard a soft gasp, perhaps a sob, from Blekeke.
The dog trotted slowly, reluctantly, forward, tail between its legs, growling and whining at the same time.
"Running! Running! Hurry!" Blekeke screamed.