Max went limp. Once again that awful mouth opened to its full extent.
"No, you don't!" cried Planter, battling his way close. For a second time he drove with the knife, sheathing it to the hilt in a slate-colored chest, close to one armpit.
A fountain of blood sprang forth, drenching his face and weapon hand. He dragged strongly downward, felt his weapon point grating on bone, then coming free. That was a terrible wound, but not a disabling one. In a frenzy of pain and rage, the Skygor giant threw Max far away into the water, and whirled to look for its other tormentor.
But Planter had dived yet again. The fresh blood obscured his passage as before. He came up, panted for air, and seized the limp wrist of Max. As he kicked away for shore, he heard the whine and splat of a missile.
The Skygors were shooting at him.
He bobbed under, bringing Max with him. As he fought through the water, he felt his friend quiver and beat with his hands. He felt fierce joy. Max was alive, he too, would escape. He had to come up.
"Duck down, Planter," Max told him at once. "They're going to give us another volley."
His voice was suddenly intelligent, his words sensible and articulate. Planter took the advice, swam forward again.
"Shore's that way," said Max, when they came up. "Can you make it? Give me your hand."
The ex-pugilist was climbing over a tangle of roots, to solid ground at last. Planter made shift to follow him.