The masked figure hesitated, gave a whispered sound that might have been a curse, and then sprinted around the side of the space-ship. Vanning didn't see him. His shoulder caromed into the middle of the second guard, and the two went down together, slugging, clawing, kicking.
The Swamja was incredibly strong. His mouth gaped at Vanning's throat. With an agile twist, the detective wrenched himself away, but by that time there was a gun leveled at his head. A wave of blazing agony blasted through Vanning's body—and was instantly gone. The weapon had not been turned up to the killing power.
The Swamja twisted the barrel with one finger, making the necessary adjustment. But Vanning hadn't been idle. His hands crossed over the gun, wrenched savagely. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the Swamja croaked in agony, his fingers broken.
He wasn't conquered—no! Ignoring what must have been sickening pain, he threw his arms around Vanning and squeezed till the breath rushed from the human's lungs. The detective felt himself losing consciousness. It was impossible to break that steel grip—
Once more the fangs gaped at his throat. Vanning summoned his waning strength. His left hand gripped the monster's lower jaw, his right hand the upper. Sharp teeth ripped his fingers. He did not feel them, nor the foul, gusting breath that blew hot on his sweating face.
He wrenched viciously, dragging the creature's mouth wide open—and wider yet!
A hoarse roar bubbled from the Swamja's throat. There was a sharp crack, and the malformed body twisted convulsively. The mighty arms tightened, nearly breaking Vanning's back. Then—they relaxed.
The Swamja lay still, his spine snapped.
Vanning staggered up, hearing a roaring in his ears. It wasn't imagination. Across the square, monstrous figures came racing, shouting harshly—Swamja, dozens of them!
"Vanning!" Hobbs' voice croaked.