The cat was motionless.
Caine knelt slowly, looking straight into the cat's eyes. It was about ten yards away.
Caine turned to look at Fairchild. The man was on one knee, the rifle pointing at the cat's head. The woman waited behind him, half-crouched, holding her rifle tight against her side.
Caine looked back to the cat, moving his head slowly. He could see the great swishing tail, moving back and forth, back and forth.
Why doesn't the man shoot? Caine asked himself. Why is he waiting this way?
Time halted.
Caine edged his look back to Fairchild. You crazy fool, he thought. You have the rifle in your hands, you....
And then he saw the sweat dripping from the man's face, the staring eyes, drained of their focus by fear. The man's body was trembling, and Caine thought: he's going to drop the rifle out of his hands, he's....
The woman screamed. "Kill him! Kill him—" The rifle exploded in her hands and bullets whined through the air. Caine felt a hot sting in his shoulder. And the cat was a roaring, crazed thing that swept through the air, a flash of shining blackness.