The scurrying Martians had disappeared. Through my visor bull's-eye I
could see only the Earthlit rocky surface of the ledge. Beside me
stretched the dark wall of our building.

I bounded toward the front. The brigand with the torch had been at
this front corner. I could not see him from here: he had been
crouching just around the angle.

I had a tiny bullet projector, the best weapon for short range
outdoors. I was aware of Grantline close behind me.

It took only a few of my giant leaps. I landed at the corner,
recovered my balance, and whirled around to the front.

The Martian was here, a giant misshapen lump as he crouched. His torch
was a little stab of blue in the deep shadow enveloping him. Intent
upon his work, he did not see me. Perhaps he thought his fellows had
broken our exits by now.

* * * * *

I landed like a leopard upon his back and fired, my weapon muzzle
ramming him. His torch fell hissing with a silent rain of blue fire
upon the rocks.

As my grip upon him made audiphone contact, his agonized scream
rattled the diaphragms of my ear-grids with horrible, deafening
intensity.

He lay writhing under me, then was still. His scream choked into
silence. His suit deflated within my encircling grip. He was dead; my
leaden, steel-tipped pellet had punctured the double surface of his
Erentz-fabric, penetrated his chest.

Grantline's following leap landed him over me.

"Dead?"

"Yes."

I climbed from the inert body. The torch had hissed itself out.
Grantline swung on our building corner, and I leaned down with him to
examine it. The torch had fused and scarred the surface of the wall,
burned almost through. A pressure-rift had opened. We could see it, a
curving gash in the metal wall-plate like a crack in a glass
window-pane.

I went cold. This was serious damage! The rarefied Erentz-air would
seep out. It was leaking now: we could see the magnetic radiance of it
all up the length of the ten-foot crack. The leak would change the
pressure of the Erentz system, constantly lower it, demanding steady
renewal. The Erentz motors would overheat; some might go bad from the
strain.

Grantline stood gripping me.

"Damn bad!"

"Yes. Can't we repair it, Johnny?"

"No. Have to take that whole plate-section out, shut off the Erentz
plant and exhaust the interior air of all this bulkhead of the
building. Day's job--maybe more."

* * * *