The girl nodded. "That's all here. There's more in storage, but—"
Ramey, sweeping the table with a glance, saw that their supply had dwindled to a lone container of cartridges. Enough to account for every one of their attackers, yes—if every shot could be trusted to take its toll. But with six people firing steadily, indiscriminately, against a diverse attack—
"We can't defend this place any longer," he roared. "They'll take us in five minutes. Too many entrances. Doc, is there any other—?"
It was Lake who answered. "Yes! That underground chamber I found. It has only one entrance. One armed man could defend that for a week."
"But—can we get there?"
"Through the court exit."
"That's the ticket, then," shouted Ramey. "Lake, you lead the way. Then Sheila and Dr. Aiken. Somebody grab Sheng-ti and take him along. They'll murder him if we leave him behind. Ready, everybody? Go, now. Orderly. We'll all make it."
There came one contradictory voice. Out of a sudden, ominous hush that descended as briefly no rifle anywhere was barking, came the faint, dissenting voice of Johnny Grinnell.
"Not ... all of us, Winters."
Ramey, swiveling, saw with horror that the youngster was no longer on his feet. He lay asprawl on the hard stone floor behind the barricade. His rifle was still clenched in one white-knuckled hand, but his other hand gripped his belt as if to stifle a gnawing fire there. And the fingers of that hand were dark with a slowly spreading stain.