Pink dived behind a stationary chair. He drew his useless pistol and
threw it at the being's face; it rebounded to the floor. He snatched up
a vase of ever-blooming Jovian lilies, sent them after the gun. The
monster reached for him, snarling. He leaped over its hand, hurdling it
as if he were a boy crossing a fence. On the far wall were many weapons.

When he made Captain, and was given the _Elephant's Child_ as his
flagship, he had transferred all his belongings to it, so that nowhere
in the galaxies would he ever feel at home save here. Among his
keepsakes was the collection of antique weaponry handed down to him by
his father, whose grandfather had bought them in the long ago from many
museums. Gradually he had added to the collection, souvenirs of the
planets he had explored. They were bracketed on the wall. Zulu war clubs
and Kentucky muskets. Martian spear-guns and antiquated jet-pistols; a
Derringer, a Colt .44, a blowpipe from an unknown Pacific island.

The alien giant was too swollen to turn swiftly. Pink reached the wall
display. He tore down an assegai, whirled and thrust it at the
monstrous, contorted face, searching for the eyes.

He was a mouse, bedeviling a cat with a broom straw. The thing batted
his spear aside, brushed him with its fingers in a powerful swat,
smashed him against his desk. A corner caught him, and he felt a rib
snap. The pain enraged him.

* * * * *

In that desk he kept his other collection, ammunition for those weapons:
it was his boast that he had at least six rounds for every
projectile-thrower there. Some of it had been painstakingly fashioned in
modern times from the old formulae, some miraculously preserved through
the centuries. On strange planets he and Jerry used to have target
practice with the ancient toys.

Now the agony and the fear forced him into a gesture. He would die in
this room, for certainly he'd never tell the giant where to find the
air-lock switches; he had to go down fighting, and if to fight this
impervious lout was the most futile of gestures, at least he would make
it a glorious one!

Fumbling, he tore open a drawer and clutched a box out of it. This was
the ammunition for the Colt revolver. Gripping it in his left hand, he
jumped aside as the beast put out a hand for him. He fled across the
room, his ears cringing from the titanic yells of fury behind him. Now
he had to get the Colt .44 from the wall.

It took hi