e valve on
the suspensine tank. Lucky he had it--but then, a good hunter thinks
of everything. He'd get awfully bored, lying here till Wisby caught
the signal in ten days or so and came to find him, but he'd last. It
would be an experience to remember. In this dry air, the Martian's
skin would keep perfectly well.

He felt the paralysis creep up on him, the waning of heartbeat and
lung action. His senses and mind were still alive, and he grew aware
that complete relaxation has its unpleasant aspects. Oh, well--he'd
won. He'd killed the wiliest game with his own hands.

Presently Kreega sat up. He felt himself gingerly. There seemed to be
a rib broken--well, that could be fixed. He was still alive. He'd been
choked for a good ten minutes, but a Martian can last fifteen without
air.

He opened the sleeping bag and got Riordan's keys. Then he limped
slowly back to the rocket. A day or two of experimentation taught him
how to fly it. He'd go to his kinsmen near Syrtis. Now that they had
an Earthly machine, and Earthly weapons to copy--

But there was other business first. He didn't hate Riordan, but Mars
is a hard world. He went back and dragged the Earthling into a cave
and hid him beyond all possibility of human search parties finding
him.

For a while he looked into the man's eyes. Horror stared dumbly back
at him. He spoke slowly, in halting English: "For those you killed,
and for being a stranger on a world that does not want you, and
against the day when Mars is free, I leave you."

Before departing, he got several oxygen tanks from the boat and hooked
them into the man's air supply. That was quite a bit of air for one in
suspended animation. Enough to keep him alive for a thousand years.

* * * * *

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Duel on Syrtis, by Poul William Anderson

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