Snyder grinned and raised his knife for aim.
The blue-furred Moon native hesitated, uncertain, then teetered and dropped downward. It landed on Snyder's shoulder, the knife describing an awkward arc. The giant's pressure suit exploded as a six inch gash was opened behind the neck. The mad leer disappeared and the fat man gasped at the scant air. He flailed about, rolling over and over, pulling Logan with him, then lay still; his eyes pushed upward, fighting to breathe.
A shower of lights hit Logan's brain. A chant pounded accompaniment. "Can't kill 'im. Can't kill 'im. Can't—" The plastic helmet of the mad Cyclops had shattered on the rocks and he found himself hammering feebly at the loose features, tears of exhaustion streaming down his face. The mimic continued to slash with the knife and the Patrolman's suit dissolved, the left shoulder laid open. It grew very dark....
There was a bed and sheets and the smell of tobacco smoke when he came to. The room was in semi-darkness, but he could make out two figures.
"Cigarette?" one of them asked and held a match. The other occupant opened the shades and light filtered in. Immediately he recognized the first. The long thin face and the bright eyes belonged to General Winkham, commanding general of the Patrol.
"Sir—" He tried to sit up, but the arm cast held him.
"No need for formality, Logan." The general smiled. "The radaronics operator tracked your ship down. You were near dead when the searching party spotted that mimic." He chuckled. "They had the devil's own time disarming the little beast."
"What—what about Snyder?"
The general sobered. "You've been asleep for two days. Snyder was hanged yesterday."