The dis-gun wailed in Denton's fist.
He fired the moment the slug-like creature came from the hut's door, the wailing hiss of the gun strangely loud. There was a silent scream that crescendoed and titillated in diminishing waves, then the creature collapsed into a protoplasmic mass that quivered horribly for a moment and then was still.
"Don!" Jean said fearfully.
The trouble shooter's face was like chiselled granite, and he stepped to the door of the hut and rayed the stinking mass of bubbly flesh out of existence. He handed the twin ati-gun to the girl, nodded toward the hut's interior.
"Stay here," he snapped, "while I take a look inside. Shoot at anything that moves."
He smiled then for the first time, seeing the determination in the lines of the girl's chin. Then he whirled, stepped within the doorway, his nerves icy cold, the flat muscles of his body ready for instant darting action.
He stopped, his breathing a startled gasp. Eight men were within the hut, eight men lying in the stillness of death.