Jamison ran swiftly then. He passed Forsyth and Murph, determined to be the first to reach the one man he hated. He sprinted eagerly, sucking the strange air chemicals of this world into his lungs. He was short of breath. Behind him he heard the heavy thudding of Murph plunging and plowing toward him, and in addition, the light but rapid steps of Forsyth. By now he didn't care. He was confronting his opponent. Dropping into a crouch, Jamison moved in. Feet wide, tense; there would be no mistake, no error, this time. His fist lashed out and his opponent fell on the strange and powdery dust of a strange world millions of miles from their first fight. The man started struggling up--and again flat-footed, tense, fists like crunching sledge hammers, Jamison dove at him. And then it happened. Murph hit Jamison from the side. Raw and choking with rage, Murph clubbed, groped, kicked, fouled, until the ex-fighter fell in the pale and strange dust. Murph's voice was hoarse and shaking: "Hit my woman, will you!" he screamed in rage. Jamison tried to rally, but each time he moved Murph's fists slammed against his face and head. There was a final crash as the back of his head struck against the rocks on the ground. Jamison lay in the dust on an alien planet and from behind his right ear gray and reddish matter oozed. He didn't move. Murph stood up. He looked again at Sitra. He was choked and tired, standing there, and as he grasped for breath, Forsyth ran by him, ran up to her. Angrily he watched. Forsyth running up to _his_ woman! What was wrong with these men? Murph saw Forsyth put his arms around Sitra, and say--meaninglessly to Murph--"Jimmy, Jimmy!" Again a red rage filled Murph. He dove forward, smashed into Forsyth, and the navigator reeled backwards. As he fell back, his feet tangled in the scrubby vegetation of the planet, he reached toward his belt and his electro-gun jerked free from the holster. He saw the bull shape of Murph over him, an enraged beast, and as he fell, the twin electrodes shot out an energy stream. Fear and hatred tensed his nerves, but despite the emotion, he set the range right. The sparks arced together just in front of the great bulk of Murph. There was a crackling and the smell of burning flesh, then a surprised look upon Murph's face. The surprise turned to rage and the last thing Forsyth saw was Murph falling down on him, his clothes and his chest burned away until the ribs showed, animal rage welling from his lips. A figure stood fifty feet away and watched this drama. Murph, blood coughing from his mouth and nose, the great muscles of his chest nothing but crisp burned meat, reached for Forsyth, picked him up, holding him over his head as an ape would a man, and slammed him again and again to the ground. The final time Murph tried to lift Forsyth, his strength gave out. He dropped Forsyth's limp form, coughed in a final paroxysm, and fell beside Forsyth and Jamison.