But as he did so, the cruiser dropped with swift precision. The balancing fins bit in atop a level dune near where the crippled carrier lay. Gears ground. A hatch spun swiftly outward on its screw-locks.
The man on the ground broke into a stumbling run.
From the cruiser, an amplifier blared harsh male syllables: "Halt, you chitza!" And then: "Pull up, rack you! Freeze! You know you can't get away!"
The runner scrambled over a low ledge, then on again. He gave no sign he'd even heard.
"You want a blast, huh, Thigpen? You want to go back with your legs knotted up like old Pike Mawson's!"
The runner's stride broke. Flinging himself sidewise, he rolled bodily down a short, sandy slope, then came up fast and plunged headlong into the shelter of a grotesquely-shaped rock pillar.
Aboard the cruiser, someone cursed: the amplifier picked up the echo. Voices rose angrily, only to cut off again as sharply as if slashed with a knife.