Seconds ticked away into minutes. The group busy about the ship had no intimation they were about to be attacked. They were careless to the point of foolhardiness. No sentries had been posted, no effort had been made to hide the vessel. "What are they, really?" Hargraves thought. He wondered if they were some strange form of water-dwelling life that lived in the lakes of this planet. Perhaps that was what they were! Perhaps the transition from the fish to the mammal had never been made on this planet, the fish-form developing keen intelligence. Certainly there was intelligence on this world. But it seemed to be an intelligence humans could not comprehend. * * * * * The signal for the attack sounded. Fierce shouts came from the other side of the ship. The shouters were hidden, but there was no mistaking the sounds. They came from human throats. "Give 'em hell, boys!" "Tear 'em to pieces!" The harsh throbbing of vibration pistols split the quiet air. "Steady!" Nielson said. "Wait until they go to see what's happening." The group busy around the ship raised startled faces from their task. They seemed to listen. Then they turned and ran around the bow of the vessel. "Come on!" cried Nielson, leaping from concealment. There wasn't a person left in sight to oppose them. Fifty yards to cross. Fifty yards to the ship! Fifty yards to a fighting chance for life! Under their racing feet the soft turf was soundless. Twenty-five yards to go now. Ten yards. Ten feet to the open lock. Thulon appeared in the lock. He looked in surprise at the charging men. Except for the rough staff that he carried he was weaponless. Nielson didn't give the command to fire, didn't need to give it. Every vibration pistol had been drawn long before the men leaped from cover. Every pistol came up at the same instant, every index finger squeezed a trigger. Only Thulon stood between them and a fighting chance for life. They came of warrior races, these men. No bugles urged them on. They needed no bugles. A howling vortex of radiation smashed at the figure in the lock. One vibration pistol would destroy a man, smash him to bloody bits. More than a dozen pistols were centered on the figure standing before them. Thulon stood unharmed. Staff in front of him he stood facing the fingers of hell reaching for him. The flaming fingers grasped, and did not touch him. The shooting stopped as abruptly as it began. The charge stopped. Hargraves saw Nielson staring dazedly from the figure in the lock to the pistol in his hand as if the two were irreconcilable. The pistol ought to have destroyed Thulon. It hadn't destroyed him. For a mad moment, Hargraves felt sorry for the new captain. He, too, had run headlong into a logical impossibility. All sounds were suddenly stilled, all shouting stopped, all noises died away.