They came from many directions, and he was unable to comprehend them all. He had reached a point near the bottom of the stairway, running three steps at a time, when a louder yell directed his attention to the doorway on his right. The figure of a Terran showed there. Without breaking his stride, he whipped his left hand across his body and fired a rocket. He had a glimpse of the figure dodging aside before the smoke and dust of the explosion told him he had nicked the edge of the doorway. It seemed to him that he must have shot the Terran as well, and he let his eye linger there an instant as he reached the floor of the hall. Thus, he saw the figure reappear and was in position to fling two more shots with animal quickness. The figure was blown straight backward this time, but Gerson had time to realize that there had been no head on it when it had been thrust out. His first shot must have done that. All told, he had wasted three missiles on a dummy. Then the loop of rope fell about him, and he knew why he had been lured into facing this direction. He tried to bring the rocket pistol to bear on the three Terrans running at him from behind the stairway. The fourth, at the end of the rope, heaved Gerson off his feet. He crashed down upon his sore limb, letting out a groan at the impact. One of the runners dove headlong at him, batting at the pistol as he slid past on the polished floor. Gerson felt the weapon knocked out of his grasp. It rattled and scraped along the floor out of reach, but he kicked the one who had done it in the head. Two of the Terrans were trying to hold him down, now. He got the knife from his mouth into his left hand, let a Terran see it, then bit him viciously on the wrist. The Terran let go, and Gerson found it simple to knee the remaining one in the groin. He rolled over to get a knee under him, pushed himself up with the fist gripping the knife, and saw Terrans running at him from all directions. One of them had a broad, white bandage on his head. Gerson recognized him as the medical worker. The man carried a hypodermic syringe. Unreasoning terror swept through Gerson. He knew that he must, at all costs, avoid that needle. He whirled around to slash at the men coming up behind him. The nearest fell back warily. "Put it away, Gerson," he said. "We don't want to hurt you, man! Why, you're half dead on your feet." "What's the matter?" asked another, more softly. "We can see that you're not normal. What did those bastards do to you?" Gerson looked from side to side, seeing them closing in but unable to spot an opening for a charge. "Just listen to me a minute," said the medical worker. He made the mistake of holding the hypodermic out of sight this time, too late. "Gerson, talk to me! Say something! Whatever the trouble is, we'll help you." It was the only opening. Gerson took a carefully hesitant step toward him, then another. He held up his damaged limb.