The invaders were within range now. Gene raised his energy-ray and tightened his finger around the trigger. Nothing happened. Its power was exhausted by the almost constant use to which he had put it since arriving here. He flung it aside and snatched up a spear. The first wave of half-men loosed a hail of crude shafts, hurling them with all the venom that was in their black hearts. Some went to the mark, piercing the breasts of those too slow in ducking. Their aim was poor, but they had many spears and many men to throw them. Gene tossed his own javelin and had the pleasure of seeing it bury itself in the neck of a squat creature, severing the jugular. Then the battle waxed furious. The tribe fought desperately to stem the tide. Even Old One and the venerable warriors whose day of battle should be past added their bit to the cause. But nothing could turn those squealing, hate-maddened beings that charged. Of a sudden, a hairy, hideous face poked above the barrier. The thing snarled and pulled itself over the rocks to land squarely on Gene. Man and beast met in a fight for life. The slavering brute bore Gene down with crushing strength, wrapping an arm about his waist and pushing back on his chin, trying to snap his spine. The agony was unbearable. Gene brought up a hand and clamped it on the back of the half-man's head, digging his thumb in behind the ear. An infinite moment passed, then his adversary straightened slowly, swaying on his feet. The biologist quickly wound his arms around its neck and went dragging it over the ground to a boulder. Once, twice, he bashed the filthy head against the stone. The lifeless body dropped. Hand to hand battles were raging all about Gene, and though the Wronged Ones fought valiantly, the knowledge was in their eyes that they were lost. In horror, he saw Old One threshing about on the ground, the fangs of a half-man fastened in his throat. Before Gene could move, an avenging form hurtled through the air and lit on the hell-creature. A stone dagger came down, slashing, tearing, wielded by the hand of a grief-maddened Kac. The explorer turned away, a choking lump rising in his throat. Then, in his sorrow, a daring plan came to him. Heart thumping against its prison of ribs, he raced away to the Cave of Talkers. * * * * * No one was there. The women and children were all huddled in their homes and, of course, every man was outside defending the city. He clambered up to the platform and threw himself in the bucket seat, hoping against hope that this experiment would work. The ego-transposer hummed with unholy sentience as he threw in a switch, and a soft glow appeared deep in the silver-beaded screens.