ck was
in! The Russian and western ships were alike.

Once the panel was open he flashed his torch up, finding the climbing
rungs and, above, the shadow outline of the next level opening. Securing
the alien gun in his sash beside the automatic and holding the torch in
his mouth, Travis climbed, not daring to think of the deep drop below.
Four ... five ... ten rungs, and he could reach the other door.

His fingers slid over it, searching for the release catch. But there was
no answering give. Balling his fist, he struck down at an awkward angle
and almost lost his balance as the panel fell away beneath his blow. The
door swung and he pulled through.

Darkness! Travis snapped on the torch for an instant, saw about him the
relays of a com system, and gave it a full spraying as he pivoted,
destroying the eyes and ears of the ship--unless the burnout he had
effected below had already done that. A flash of automatic fire from his
left, a searing burn along his arm an inch or so below the shoulder--

Travis' action was purely reflex. He swung the burner around, even as
his mind gave a frantic No! To defend himself with automatic, knife,
arrow--yes; but not this way. He huddled against the wall.

An instant earlier there had been a man there, a living, breathing
man--one of his own species, if not of his own beliefs. Then because his
own muscles had unconsciously obeyed warrior training, there was this.
So easy--to deal death without really meaning to. The weapon in his
hands was truly the devil gift they were right to fear. Such weapons
were not to be put into the hands of men--any men--no matter how well
intentioned.

Travis gulped in great mouthfuls of air. He wanted to throw the burner
away, hurl it from him. But the task he could rightfully use it for was
not yet done.

Somehow he reeled on into the control cabin to render the ship truly a
dead thing and free himself of the heavy burden of guilt and terror
between his hands. That weight could be laid aside; memory could not.
And no one of his kind must ever have to carry such memories again.

* * * * *

The booming of the drums was like a pulse quickening the blood to a
rhythm which bit at the brain, made a man's eyes shine, his muscles
tense as if he held an arrow to bow cord or arched his fingers about a
knife hilt. A fire blazed high and in its light men leaped and whirled
in a mad dance with tulwar blades catching and reflecting