A figure swung upright next to Rick and threw something. There was a grunt and a crash as the man who had called went down.
"Got him," Scotty said with satisfaction.
A voice rattled orders in Cantonese. The polers from the stern advanced, their long poles held out like lances. Zircon was their target.
Scotty whispered, "Let 'em get close. You take the left and I'll take the right. Go under the poles."
For a heartbeat there was quiet. Rick divined the strategy. The polemen would lunge at Zircon, then the rest would leap. He didn't know how many there were of the enemy. He thought there must be at least seven. He flattened out, eyes on the left poleman, ready to spring. The poles came nearer, one was over him.
"Now," Scotty hissed.
Rick went forward, scrambling, legs driving. It was football, but easier. His shoulder caught the poleman in the stomach, and he lifted. The man went flying. Next to him he heard a dull thud, then he saw Scotty stand up, looming large in the darkness.
But the rest of the crew had charged. For a moment Zircon's lumber wreaked havoc, then he struck a part of the junk and the two-by-four splintered. He let out a yell of rage and flung himself on the nearest man, lifted him bodily and threw him at the others.
Yellow light pierced the darkness from the direction of the shore. A voice screamed, "Yanks! Over the side! Swim here!"
"Get going," Zircon howled. "I'll cover you!"