"Forget the slingshots!" he yelled. "They can wait till later!" The revised order didn't make sense to the fishmen. They couldn't see that, while their attention was diverted, the main army could pour over the fence on a secure pyramid. They blasted away at the slingshots and ignored the wall of 'pedes. The deadly animals saw their chance and acted. With quick cunning, they sent over a torrent of invaders. Chattering in fear, the fishmen switched their attack to the pyramids, but they were too late. They were being driven back by the vermin inside the fence, and more and more were coming over. "I can't hold them, Mac," came Swede's unalarmed voice. "I can't either," Mac said tensely. "Get the fishmen and fuel tanks into the compound." Shrill screams erupted from the natives. Faced by alert, precise ranks marching toward them, they threw down their weapons and rushed for the concrete wall. * * * * * Mac ran forward, cursing. He grabbed an oxy tank and pulled it to safety. Most of the thrower fuel was safe in the camp, but the tanks outside would be badly needed if the attack continued in force. But regiments of 'pedes had by-passed the ammunition and posted guards to prevent their being rescued. Hard-faced, Mac ordered a fishmen to go out into the enclosure with him. While Mac kept back the horde with a hail of fire, the shivering native pulled a tank into the compound. Mac increased the size of the raiding parties. Again and again they sallied out, until the bulk of the abandoned fuel was saved. Sweating, Mac signaled to Limpy in the blockade house. The hermetic doors in the wall slid shut. The natives stood on the ledge on the inner side of the rampart, watching with horror-filled eyes as the fiendish beasts tried to scale the concave surface. Mac called Swede by radio, then trudged through the mud to the blockade house. The three men met in the lookout room. Seeing Swede, Mac realized for the first time how dirty, wet and exhausted he was himself. They were both blackened with mud and flame blasts, their clothing grimy and sopping. Limpy's good eye was harrowed, the frozen side of his face contorted in an evil grin. "Poor Al," muttered Swede. He sank down ponderously on a chair. "He was a game little fellow. I'll miss him." Without replying, Limpy turned around. He stared sightlessly through the infra-red windows at the white fog and the eternal mud, the seething mass of centaurpedes and the shaking, gabbling fishmen. All around the mine, seeming to reach every horizon, stretched the completely encircling army of vermin. But that was not what Limpy was seeing. Mac came over to the window. "I saw Al die, too," he said in a harshly gentle voice. "If I have to kick off that way, I hope I'll be as brave as he was."