Sirabhar slipped from table to doorway, called to his companion in their native tongue. An answer quavered back, highpitched with terror. Sirabhar turned. "He say he no dare, Master sahib. He say he do not wish to fight the Little Ones. They too many and too strong." There was anger and contempt in the loyal aide's voice. He called again to his fellow-countryman, his words a liquid blur in the tumult. An answer piped back. Sirabhar's small frame stiffened, his soft brown eyes were suddenly dark bits of flinty shale. His face contorted; he spat into the gloom and whirled to Dr. Aiken, his voice shrill, accusing. "Tomasaki no good friend, Master Doctor. Him coward. Him--" His words ended suddenly. Too suddenly. Ramey, who had turned again to the defense of his post, risked a backward glance--and was in time to see the staunch little Cambodian reel and topple forward, clutching, with fingers that seemed to spurt blood, at a gaping hole in his chest. Sheila screamed, and beside Ramey, Syd O'Brien growled a thick curse. They were the brown man's obsequies. He was dead before he hit the floor. * * * * * But there was no time to mourn him now. For Barrett, who had swung from doorway to table for a recharged weapon, roared suddenly, "The ammunition! Is that all we have left?" The girl nodded. "That's all here. There's more in storage, but--" Ramey, sweeping the table with a glance, saw that their supply had dwindled to a lone container of cartridges. Enough to account for every one of their attackers, yes--if every shot could be trusted to take its toll. But with six people firing steadily, indiscriminately, against a diverse attack-- "We can't defend this place any longer," he roared. "They'll take us in five minutes. Too many entrances. Doc, is there any other--?" It was Lake who answered. "Yes! That underground chamber I found. It has only one entrance. One armed man could defend that for a week." "But--can we get there?" "Through the court exit." "That's the ticket, then," shouted Ramey. "Lake, you lead the way. Then Sheila and Dr. Aiken. Somebody grab Sheng-ti and take him along. They'll murder him if we leave him behind. Ready, everybody? Go, now. Orderly. We'll all make it." There came one contradictory voice. Out of a sudden, ominous hush that descended as briefly no rifle anywhere was barking, came the faint, dissenting voice of Johnny Grinnell. "Not ... all of us, Winters." Ramey, swiveling, saw with horror that the youngster was no longer on his feet. He lay asprawl on the hard stone floor behind the barricade. His rifle was still clenched in one white-knuckled hand, but his other hand gripped his belt as if to stifle a gnawing fire there. And the fingers of that hand were dark with a slowly spreading stain. * * * * * In a flash Ramey was on his knees beside the younger man. Dr. Aiken, too, and Sheila. "Johnny, what's the matter? You're not--"