Phillips and Cole scrambled to obey. The three conscious men huddled back to back around the body of the unconscious one. Their weapons were small and unfamiliar in their waiting hands, and not the least bit reassuring. They waited for whatever it was that stalked them from beyond the ring of their glaring lamplight to come for them, battle with them, make itself known.
"MacMartree," Phillips whispered in the throbbing stillness.
"Well? Are you sick again?"
"No, no—I just thought...."
"Yes?"
"The screen, the serum ... failing that way. What if ... the weapons...."
A piece of eternity passed them by before MacMartree could make his lips form the command.
"Test—your weapons."
Nothing.
Tentatively, fearfully, the three squeezed the metal in their icy hands. Nothing. No rush of power, no leaping death to meet their adversary when it came. Their weapons, too, had failed them.