Suddenly Buster moved, straight up the stairs, charging with tentacles flailing. Lathrop jerked back, retreating before the rush. For a fumbling moment he held his breath as he brought up the clumsy gun and pressed the button.
A tentacle slammed against his shoulder and knocked him sidewise even as he fired. He brought up against the stone wall of the staircase with a jolt, the gun still hissing in his hand.
For an instant Buster halted as the faint blue radiance from the weapon spattered on his armor, then tottered, half fell, regained erectness with an effort. Slowly at first, then with a rush, he began to shrink — as if he were falling in upon himself.
Lathrop lifted his finger from the button, lowered the gun. Buster was trying to scramble up the steps, still trying to get at him, but the stairs now were too high for him to negotiate.
In stricken silence, Lathrop watched him grow smaller and smaller, just as the spaceship had grown smaller out there on the desert.
Thrusting the gun back into his belt, Lathrop knelt on the stairs and watched the frantic running of the tiny robot, running as if be were trying to escape from something, trapped by his very smallness on a single tread.
Buster was no more than two inches tall, seemed to be growing no smaller. Gently, Lathrop reached down and picked him up. He shuddered as he held the robot in his hand.
Buster, he knew, had almost succeeded in his purpose, had almost captured him. Had lulled him to sleep by his almost human attributes, by his seeming friendliness. Perhaps Buster had figured out it was the only way to get him.
He lifted his hand until it was level with his face. Buster waved stubby tentacles at him.
“You almost did it, chum,” said Lathrop.