"Over the roofs," he whispered. "Which way out?"
She pointed, still uncertain of his intentions.
A big man in a uniform like Nick's own lay sprawled on the floor of the adjoining room, a black circle between his eyes. Nick spared him just one glance. And then he understood the sticky-moist splotch he had encountered in the street. The man with the straggly beard had caused it, bleeding his life away through the gaping rent in his chest.
The girl ignored Nick's ready pistol and ran to the low couch on which the old man reclined. "Dad!" she called softly, shaking his shoulder. "Dad!"
Nick pulled her away and shook his head. Jackson Jones, the first man to reach Mars, was dead.
"Shoot that panel down!" someone yelled from the ramp. "He's in there!"
"Wanna get took by the back-blast?" another voice complained. "Stand back."
"Which way?" Nick asked quietly.
The girl darted to a window and Nick caught his breath as she reached toward the guarding screen-creature. Then he stared for, instead of killing her with its strange powers, the rubbery, no-color, living stuff flowed back into grooves in the edge of the stone. Susan gave one last backward glance at her father's body and scrambled through.
Nick followed nervously and sprawled beside her on a narrow roof ledge. She touched the screen-creature again and it closed with a silent, oily motion.