"Wait a minute!" they heard Weston shouting. "Hold on, all of you! I'll handle this!"
The sound of running stopped. The bedlam subsided.
They saw Weston making gestures at his bowmen to take up a new position. With tense motions and sober faces, the men obeyed, fixing arrows to their bowstrings while the rest of the camp watched them—and something else that stood just on the edge of the jungle.
There, towering a head above the tallest man, was the alien, staring at all of them with his one, baleful eye. Across his chest, near the breathing orifice in the middle, he wore several patches of something that looked like plasters, or bandages, where Scarface had shot him. He looked weak. His shoulders slumped, and his arms dragged almost to the ground.
"What's the matter, Merman?" yelled Weston.
Merman had been one of the first to run. Now he stood at a considerable distance from the group, looking back.
"You were willing to have a small bunch of guys tackle this freak in the lounge on board the plane," Weston shouted. "But now when you're face to face with him you run! Don't go yellow, Merman! I said I was taking charge, and I am!"
Weston looked at the crowd of castaways and grinned, contemptuously. "This was our 'common goal,' wasn't it? Now I've got it my way! If it was up to you guys, you'd all put on your best ties and sit down to have a conference. Not me! I say—get him!"
Whereupon, he led his men toward the alien, axe in hand.
"No, wait!" cried Dr. Bauml. "Don't harm him or we'll never know!"