Don looked critically at the carrier.
There was, he thought, evidence of carelessness. No deflector screens were set up. A Moreku tribesman could put a stone from a sling in there, and really mess them up—if he could sneak in close enough. He grinned inwardly.
"Of course, if he hit the right spot, he'd go up with 'em," he told himself. "Be quite a blast."
He continued to study the weapons carrier arrangements, noting that the chargers were hot, ready for instant activation. Even the gun current was on. He could see the faint iridescence around the beam-forming elements. He shook his head.
"Hit that lens system against something right now," he muttered inaudibly, "or get something in the field, and that would be the end."
The loud-speaker clicked again and the camera swung to center the house in its field of view.
"Your time is running out, Waern." The amplified roar of the voice reverberated from the hills. "You have twenty seconds left."
Abruptly, the speaker became a blaze of almost intolerable light. The man near it rolled away hurriedly, dropping his microphone. Another man quickly picked up a handset and spoke briefly into it.
Again, the camera picked up the weapons carrier. The crew chief had his hand on his microphone switch. He nodded curtly and adjusted a dial. The lens barrel of the projector swung toward the house, stopped, swung back a trifle, and held steady.