"I won't do it," he said. "I will not shoot that bird."
"You're a fool, Elliot. You know that if we don't get the bird, you don't get paid. Why don't you—"
"I won't do it!"
"Very well," said Blayne coldly. "I can't waste further time arguing with you. The bird may go back inside the temple any minute. Give me the gun. I'll do it myself—and I'll settle with you later."
Silently, Elliot returned the gun to the fat man. Blayne took it, cocked it, sighted along the barrel. A second time, his finger began to tighten on the trigger.
Suddenly, in a flash of bitter insight, Elliot realized he could never live with himself again if he allowed that finger to close on the trigger. No matter what the cost to himself, he couldn't let this fat butcher kill one of the most beautiful things that had ever lived, as—as a trophy.
All the pent-up rage that had been building inside him since his first meeting with Blayne exploded. Realizing exactly what the significance of his action was, he threw up his hand and slammed it hard against the barrel of the rifle just as Blayne fired.
The shot cracked out, breaking the silence, and a native fell. Blayne looked at him in astonishment.
"You fool!" he shouted.
The fat man leaped up, swinging the rifle around in a buzzing arc toward Elliot. The pilot side-stepped, and the butt whistled through the air inches above his head. Blayne, off-balance after the swing, fell away to one side, and Elliot sprang at him.