Gail Loring was there, clad in a spacesuit, holding her automatic pistol with both hands. The gun was bucking and kicking and making that puffing noise.
I glanced back. Two of the five Martians were on the ground. It wasn't luck, it wasn't good shooting, it was a goddamn miracle.
Gail broke up the party.
The three surviving Martians had had enough and, as Gail emptied that enormous .45 without hitting anything, they broke and ran in all directions, waving their trunklike arms in sheer terror. My earphones gave the cricket-burp. Martian cuss words, no doubt.
Still holding my rifle in my left hand and my pistol in my right, I clasped Gail in my arms, yelling things like "sweetheart, darling, angel."
"Sweetheart—darling—angel!" screamed the Martians.
I tried to kiss Gail through my helmet and hers, too. And we laughed and cried as we ran back to the Mars-car. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as I helped her into the locks.
As we entered the car again, we stopped laughing. A half mile away fifteen hundred Martians were leaving the highway and advancing toward us with joined arms.
My earphones screeched with Mars talk: "Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Sweetheart!"
They'd interpreted our cries of relief as battle cries.