But in the sandcar the little fool screamed. The old Martian darted into the car, yanked Monk away from Tooli, and descended on him like an enraged beast.
Monk hadn't meant to kill the old Martian. He'd meant only to silence his shrill screams and stop the frenzied flailing of his fists.
How could he have known that the thin neck would snap like a rotten stick under his first blow?
Monk's smile faded.
No, he thought, he hadn't acted too wisely. He'd expected the frightened girl to leap out of the sandcar and race away on her lozelle—and she had.
But he hadn't expected her to return an hour later with a dozen revenge-hungry tribesmen. His mistake had been in letting her escape. He cursed silently.
Then he spat. After all, it was over and done. The Martians had trussed him, buried him, and left him to die—but he'd at least been wise enough not to reveal his ace in the hole.
His partner, old Stardust Luke, had left yesterday in the auxiliary sandcar to get fresh supplies from Chandler Field. Old Stardust was as honest as a baby and methodical as a clock. He'd return today, late in the afternoon, just as he'd done a dozen times.
There was no doubt about the punctual arrival of Stardust. And Stardust would save him before the freezing descent of the Martian night.