"No buts. Right now we'd better get out of here."
He took her hand and they ran, slid, fell, picked themselves up again, and ran. He doubted the wisdom of keeping her with him. Alone, the webfoots were no match for him. He could travel instantly to any spot he chose. But with Sybtl it was another matter; he was no better than any other man, perhaps not so good as some because he was forty, and never had been an athlete.
How was he to decide if this planet was suitable for his people, hampered by a woman, slinking through a frozen wilderness like an Indian? But the woman's hand was soft. He felt strong knowing she depended on him.
Anyway, he decided, pursuit was impossible. They left no tracks on the ice. They were safe, unless the webfoots possessed talents unknown to him.
So they followed the path leading down from the rocks, along the creek with its tumbling water. Frozen, leafless willows clawed at their bodies. The sun shone fiercely in a cloudless sky. Already water ran in tiny rivulets over the ice. The woman steered him to the right, away from the creek.
Stinson's bare feet were numb from walking on ice. Christ, he thought, what am I doing here, anyway? He glanced down at Sybtl and remembered the webfoots. He stopped, tempted to use his cylinder and move to a warmer, less dangerous spot.
The woman pulled on his arm. "We must hurry!"
He clutched the tube-weapon. "How many shots in this thing?"
"Shots?"