The tall Wolfgang sidestepped and thrust out an arm, stopping Kahl's stumbling rush for the doorway and sending the old man staggering to sprawl at Schwinzog's feet.
"You would leave without us?" inquired the Gestapoleiter mockingly. "For that, it would be only just to leave you here—but do not fear. You will still be useful. And now we have no more time for—"
With a burst of strength that seemed in him incredible, Kahl surged to his feet and flung himself on Schwinzog with an animal scream. The big man, caught off balance in his negligent pose, was hurled backward and fell clutching; his head thudded solidly against the time traveler's metal sheathing. Kahl twisted free and swayed to his feet, and the machine gun was in his hands; it bucked and spat as he swung it in a jerky arc. Wolfgang, caught in mid-leap, crashed to the ground and rolled, and the German soldiers scattered wildly, firing a few shots that were aimed more away from Schwinzog than at Kahl. One man was too slow and dropped at the edge of the unburned thicket, and a couple of others yelped as they fled.
Dr. Kahl went on raining bullets into the bushes for seconds after there were no more targets; then he stood breathing hard and glaring about him at the bodies sprawled on the scorched turf.
One of the bodies got unhurriedly to its feet and faced Kahl. It was Manning. The fatalistic paralysis that had gripped him had passed off abruptly when he saw Schwinzog fall, and he had thrown himself flat under the sweeping bursts of machine gun fire.
He said coolly, "Good work, Herr Doktor. Now we can get back to our own century."
Kahl did not answer or seem to hear. The muzzle of the weapon he held was centered on Manning's chest, and the eyes above it were mad.
"We must return now, and carry out your plan," Manning urged softly. As he talked he was walking without haste toward the gun. He did not dare glance aside to see what had happened to Dugan, or let even his expression betray his terrible eagerness to seize the moment—before Kahl went completely off the deep end, or before the Germans back there in the bushes collected their wits.
"You are American," scowled Kahl. "One of those who hate us. What have I to do with you?"