And Emerson dove in at him, like a fullback at the line.
The bolt of yellow never left the muzzle of the gun. It was smothered in a cobalt-dark spray of angry color. Color that sizzled.
Emerson brought his fist up hard, caught the big adventurer alongside his jaw, snapping his head back viciously. With hard lefts and rights, Emerson banged his fists mercilessly, swarming over Mussdorf, bruising his ribs, thudding home his big fists on jaw and belly.
Mussdorf dropped, rolled over: lashed upward with both feet.
Emerson sideswayed, drove in. His fists battered Mussdorf's jaw, rolling his head from side to side. His knuckles gashed the tight skin and drew blobs of blood. Mussdorf staggered dizzily, and pitched forward as Emerson hammered his head again.
"I put up with you long enough," he spat at the prostrate man. "After this, when I give an order, you—obey!"
Emerson bent, ripped the gun from Mussdorf; thrust it into his belt.
"But this is what we came to get," Nichols said. "This means life—security—wealth—freedom from cancer—for all the people on Earth and Mars."
"I know," Emerson nodded. "We'll have to take it."