He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not the mildly stunning neuro-clubs.
Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit. Another second, his brain screamed. Just another second—
Or would the exits be guarded?
He heard the hiss.
It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just a slight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.
He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to be growing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tiny needle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzing mortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle of his body.
He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd have fifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind and body overpowered him.
In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voice yell, "Turn on the damn lights!"
Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that someone had seized it.