Callahan nodded. "I suppose that's best. We've only one gun."
"Well—that can't be helped. Lysla, you go with Callahan."
The blue eyes blazed. "No! It'll take all of us to manage the guards. I'm fighting with you."
Vanning grunted. "Well—here. Take the gun. Use it when you get a chance, but be careful. Zeeth? Hobbs? Ready?"
The two men nodded silently. With a hard grin on his tired face, Vanning gave the signal and followed the disguised Callahan as he walked toward the ship. Maybe the guards wouldn't take alarm at sight of one of their own race, as they thought. But the masquerade couldn't keep up indefinitely.
The sentries looked toward the newcomers, but made no hostile move. One of them barked a question. Callahan didn't answer. He kept lumbering toward the ship, his masked face hideous and impassive. Vanning, at his heels, was tense as wire. Beside him, he heard Zeeth breathing in little gasps.
Twenty paces separated the two parties—fifteen—ten. A guard croaked warning. His hand lifted, a gun gripped in the malformed fingers.
Simultaneously Lysla whipped up her weapon and fired. Once—twice—and the Swamja cried out and dropped his gun, pawing at his eyes. Then—
"Let 'em have it!" Vanning snarled—and sprang forward. "Callahan! Get that port open!"