Gramp leveled his flame gun.
'Now,' he shouted, 'let 'em have it.'
From the jaws of the cut-bank leaped a blast of withering fire that swept the monsters as they charged and seemed to melt them down. But those behind climbed over and charged through the ones the flame had stopped and came on, straight toward the men who crouched in the shadow of the hill.
Gramp's gun was getting hot. He knew that in a moment it would be a warped and useless thing. That it might even explode in his hand and kill all three of them. For the flame gun is not built to stand continuous fire.
And still the things came on.
Before the cut-bank lay a pile of bodies that glowed metal-red where the pistol flames had raked them.
Gramp dropped his gun and backed away toward the wall of the cut bank.
Jurg Tec still crouched and worked his pistol with short, sharp, raking jabs, trying to keep it from over-heating.
In a smaller recess crouched the whimpering senator, his gun still in its holster.
Cursing him, Gramp leaped at him, hauled out the flame gun and shoved the senator to one side.