"Hope that anatomy book was right," he told himself.
Of course, he realized, if he missed the tiny target—if the bullet failed to destroy the motor centers on impact—Stern would die anyway. But he just might be able to press the release on that khroal. And that wouldn't be good.
The aiming point moved a trifle and Don eased back into position.
What had happened to the trigger on this thing? Had he forgotten to take off the safety? Again, the cross hairs started to wander and he eased them back—back toward that little spot.
The rifle leaped upward with a roar, slamming back against Don's shoulder. He let it settle again, examining the scene anxiously through his sight.
Stern was still on his feet, but his hands were dropping limply to his sides. Don could just see the glitter of the khroal by Pete's feet. Then, Stern's knees bent and he flowed to the ground.
Pete had turned at the sound of the shot. He looked back at the palace door, then glanced at the khroal.
At last, he knelt beside the body on the ground. He felt the throat, then examined the man's head. For an instant, he looked a little sick, then he looked away from the tiny hole in front of the man's ear. He got to his feet and waved a hand.
"Pinwheel," he shouted.