He watched the younger man disappear within the port, then shook his head slowly, peered about the long stretch of silver beach. He swore bitterly for a moment, realizing the full import of the stupid line of reasoning that had equipped them with the wrong style of weapons on their expedition. Should they be attacked by the monster of insatiable protoplasm, their chances of survival were almost none.
He swung in a slow circle, studying the forest edge, seeking any sign that would indicate the presence of an alien danger. Tree fronds moved gently in the soft breeze, giving an uncanny life to the vines and creepers whose tips lay on the silvery sand. He had the weird prescience that he was being watched, but could not detect the watcher.
He turned to face the ocean, sat on the dry sand, a dis-gun clutched within the curl of the fingers of his good hand. His broken arm throbbed unmercifully, a slow streak of pain traveling into his shoulder. He sighed unconsciously, lit a cigarette, then gripped his weapon again, the slim cigarette canted upward in his firm mouth.
Sand rustled a bit a dozen feet away. The old space-pilot watched the sand bulging slightly, then sliding softly to one side as a blunt, scaly head poked through into the atmosphere. He lifted the gun a bit, felt the skin crawl on his back, as a scaly lid peeled back from a single eye which stared at him with unwinking malevolence.
The head emerged from the sand, was followed by the sinuous length of a snakelike body. Eight tiny legs made little scraping sounds in the sand. Feelers, like thick antennae, unfolded from cavities in the head, flicked slowly back and forth. The creature hissed suddenly, moved slowly toward the seated pilot.
Kerry Blane blasted it into nothingness with full power of the dis-gun. A few flakes of smoking ashes drifted lazily in the breeze for a moment, and the odor of charred flesh was a dank miasma.
"Holy Hell!" Kerry Blane ejaculated, wiped quick perspiration from his face.
He felt the slight tap on his shoulder then, turned with a quick shake of his head. "Listen, Splinter—" he began, felt a terrifying horror draining all strength from his compact body.
He tried to swing the dis-gun up, felt the double band of rubbery-like creeper flip about his shoulders, pinning his arms to his chest. Terror constricted his throat, as his gaze followed the line of creeper to its parent plant that waited with blossom agape like some bloody, sucking mouth.
He whirled to one side in a diving plunge, surged with a desperate strength against the coil of creeping vine that was coiled so tightly about his body, was brought to a bone-shaking halt with a suddenness that jarred his injured arm with a force that cramped him with nausea. His gun went flying to the sand, lay there, out of reach of his straining fingertips.