A fantastic hope crystallized in his mind. Conception and action was simultaneous.
"Now!" Norman breathed, and fell as if dead.
He fell just a fraction of a second before Vermeer pulled the trigger. He heard the poisoned dart whistle over his shoulder, then he hit the street with a jarring thud and lay still. He daren't breathe, daren't flicker an eyelash.
It would never occur to Vermeer that he could have missed at twenty short paces. The very deadliness of the darts precluded any necessity of administering a coup de grace. Norman could hear the shuffle of Vermeer's approaching steps. Had the trick worked?
Vermeer's foot nudged him in the ribs.
Like the recoil of a spring, Norman grabbed the agent's ankles, threw his weight against Vermeer's knees. The man toppled backward. Norman swarmed on top of him.
Vermeer had been suspicious. He still retained the dart gun in his hand. Norman seized his wrist. They struggled fiercely, silently in the empty streets, their only audience the plant men covered with blight, full of the indifference of death.
With a surge of exultation Norman felt Vermeer's wrist weaken. He threw his weight on the weapon, bent it downward. His finger covered the trigger. He squeezed.
Vermeer shuttered and lay still.
Norman crouched backward off the dead agent to his feet. The sound of firing in the human colony was silent. Whatever the outcome of the battle had been, he realized, it was over.