The man turned his fat face back toward Jan. The look in the small eyes made Jan's hand steal toward his sheathed knife. The eyes saw that movement. They narrowed cruelly. A sneer appeared on the bloated lips.
Suddenly a fat hand darted down to a lumpy object on the man's hip and drew out a squat blue object. It came up. Jan could see a dark hole in it. He stared curiously.
Unconsciously he had drawn his knife as the man drew the strange object. His keen nostrils brought him the smell of sweat that has the odor of a tense body. His hunting instinct told him this creature was going to charge.
Jan felt something hot touch his left shoulder. With it came the sound of a sharp report. The strange thing in the man's hand buckled queerly.
Jan looked at his shoulder. There was a gaping, angry wound in it. In some way this man had hurt him. He didn't stop to analyze how or why. The fact was there. He could either turn to run or advance to fight,—and he had never yet turned to run.
He had learned the trick of weaving in and slashing, and withdrawing quickly. This stood him in good stead. The queer thing in the man's hand barked at him, but missed hurting him each time.
Jan's knife reached in unerringly and slashed the wrist of the hand holding the spitting thing. The blood gushed out in a pulsating stream.
The man dropped the gun and tried to stem the flow. Jan took this opportunity to dart in again and slide his blade across the fat neck.
A look of horrible realization appeared in the man's eyes. He turned, stumbled forward, and fell headlong into the space above the mysteriously glistening square slab. The soles of his shoes seemed to hang in the air briefly before they followed the rest of him into nothingness.