Instantly the Silicytes crowded around, their chain-like tentacles clashing, reaching out toward him. Ron could feel their crystal coldness even through his space-suit. He shoved them recklessly out of the way, knowing they were harmless. At last he procured a space-suit, and then came a job not to his liking—fitting Oruk's huge body into it. At last, however, it was accomplished. He shoved the bulging, helmeted figure outside again, and climbed out beside it.
Ron's lips tightened grimly now. If his luck held, he'd make Tarnuff waste his bullet....
But where was Tarnuff? For a second Ron thought of clicking on his phone again and calling out, to see what would happen. But no—that would give his own position away. If he didn't know where Tarnuff was, neither did the Martian know where he was.
Ron took a guess and moved toward the stern again.
He knew he would have to be doubly careful now, and yet paradoxically he'd have to take a chance. With difficulty he held the space-suited figure close to his side. As he came ever nearer the stern he began to move oblique upward, peering intently all along the hull's horizon for a sight of Tarnuff. Would this trick work? Perhaps Tarnuff wouldn't fire at the first sight of a space-helmeted figure, as Ron hoped. And yet—why not? He'd be expecting no other moving figure out there except Ron's.
Ron was almost at the stern tubes now. He began to wonder if Tarnuff had taken the other direction after all, toward the bow off the ship. He took a firmer hold on the body beside him, moved a few more feet obliquely upward, and then ... he had guessed right! He saw the Martian!
Ron caught only a glimpse of him, flattened against the hull with his pistol held ready, before he jerked his own head down again. He looked at Oruk's dead grayish face inside the plate so close to his own. He could only hope that Tarnuff wouldn't recognize it. Luckily the two helmets were identical, and Ron was sure that if Tarnuff fired at all, it would be at the face-plate.
It was a gruesome thing to do, but this was no time for squeamishness, Ron thought, as he began easing the body up inches at a time. It was the age-old trick to draw the enemys fire.
Nothing happened. He pushed the body higher, almost recklessly, but maintained a firm grip on it. Still higher. He was sure it must be at least partially in Tarnuff's line of vision by now. Why didn't he fire? Could he have detected—