The horizon was foggy. He could see Bates and the motorsled. _They'd know he'd had the guts_.... * * * * * It was a nightmare, falling, getting up, falling again. He had made it to the first row of foothills when Edward Snyder caught him. The giant had found a knife in the galley and he brandished it over his head, narrowing the distance between them with long leaps. Logan's normal thirty foot Moon strides had fallen to ten. There was nothing left in him. He felt the impact of weight against his back, an arm tighten about his neck and they fell to the rocks. Only a trick of the gravity saved him from the first dipping of the knife. How long they fought there was no reckoning. Logan could see the giant laughing within his plastic helmet and he thought of Johnny and found the strength to fight. He held his blaster club fashion and struck feebly. He knew it couldn't last long. Nothing as uneven, as unfair as this ever did. The two pressure-suited bodies bounced over the rocky surface, Snyder's mad thrashing tossing them yards into the air. When they lit the last time something snapped and Logan's arm twisted queerly. Above them, on a projection of rock, he saw the mimic waving the knife it had acquired to imitate its insane master. Logan summoned all his strength in a desperate gamble on the creature's one virtue. "Do it! Do it! Damn it, do it!" Snyder grinned and raised his knife for aim. The blue-furred Moon native hesitated, uncertain, then teetered and dropped downward. It landed on Snyder's shoulder, the knife describing an awkward arc. The giant's pressure suit exploded as a six inch gash was opened behind the neck. The mad leer disappeared and the fat man gasped at the scant air. He flailed about, rolling over and over, pulling Logan with him, then lay still; his eyes pushed upward, fighting to breathe. A shower of lights hit Logan's brain. A chant pounded accompaniment. "Can't kill 'im. Can't kill 'im. Can't--" The plastic helmet of the mad Cyclops had shattered on the rocks and he found himself hammering feebly at the loose features, tears of exhaustion streaming down his face. The mimic continued to slash with the knife and the Patrolman's suit dissolved, the left shoulder laid open. It grew very dark.... * * * * * There was a bed and sheets and the smell of tobacco smoke when he came to. The room was in semi-darkness, but he could make out two figures. "Cigarette?" one of them asked and held a match. The other occupant opened the shades and light filtered in. Immediately he recognized the first. The long thin face and the bright eyes belonged to General Winkham, commanding general of the Patrol. "Sir--" He tried to sit up, but the arm cast held him.