But at least, I thought, the fight was over and I'd done the Solar League's dirty work for it. I'd never be able to hold up my head again in a circle of gladiators, but the System was safe.
I came to my feet and turned to go.
A shout, incredulous, unbelieving, arose from the stands, drowning out the cries of those wounded by the blast of my grenade.
I spun and stared.
Crawling laboriously over the lip of the crater my grenade had caused was the Centaurian. One of his many limbs seemed limp and useless, and his shell was battered and begrimed, but he was still alive, and not too much the worse for wear.
When it got to level ground again it seemed to pause momentarily, seeking me out.
I grabbed up the heavy submachine gat—as Suzi tells me they called them in the old days—and threw it to my shoulder. The projectiles it threw were only half an inch in diameter but each of them packed a charge of atomic explosive.
I trained it and held the trigger down. The two hundred round drum was exhausted in less than a half minute, and the sound of the projectiles exploding against the shell of my foe was ear shocking in intensity. Once again, a cloud of smoke and dust enveloped the Centaurian. And only after the last cartridge had been expended and the submachine gat now useless, was the sigh of relief that went up over the stands audible.
But through the smoke, of a sudden, charged the six legged Centaurian and my eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. He was seemingly not further injured.