A voice behind him shouted, "Stop, Saint Clair!"
He spun around.
Vermeer was toiling up the hill behind him. The agent of the Venusian Export Lines had his dart gun drawn and levelled. He halted half a dozen steps from Norman. He said, "There's always a reckoning, Saint Clair."
Wildly, Norman speculated on his chance should he hurl himself at Vermeer in the face of the poisoned needles. He knew there was none.
"You've had a remarkable run of luck," Vermeer smiled. "But by the laws of chance, it was bound to turn."
Norman didn't reply. The explosion of a rocket shell suddenly rent the air, followed by the crackle of dum-dum fire. It ascended faintly unreal from the human colony below them.
"My men," Vermeer explained, "are attacking yours. But it doesn't matter who wins. The real contest is being decided up here between us two. It's rather like ancient times, with which you're so familiar, Saint Clair, when battles were decided between two champions. You see, I took the precaution to close the gate before I followed you."
Norman could feel the drag of his own dart gun at his waist, considered throwing himself to one side, snatching for his gun. Vermeer, he realized bitterly, had only to pull his trigger.
"I wonder," Vermeer went on, "if you realize the stakes we're playing for? The man who remains alive within the force wall can control the solar system." He laughed exultantly, drew a careful bead on Norman's chest.
He's going to fire, thought Norman. Even at that distance, he could see the knuckles of the agent's hand whiten as they contracted about the pommel of the dart gun.