They were perhaps within ten feet when a metal plate, sheared off from the pilot's cabin in the fall, lifted up. Barely visible under it was a pair of large, running feet. One soldier, trying to oppose it with his hands, was knocked senseless and bleeding. He might as well have tried to stop an oncoming rocket ship. Neuro-pistols, bearing from every side, spanged briskly. They partly neutralized one another. Their charges were partly reflected by the metal and partly absorbed by Tolto's great bulk. He was thoroughly confused now. Every way he looked in this glaring wilderness of desert and rocks were enemies. * * * * * But there! An opening loomed, cool and dark. The fortress entrance. Tolto dashed into it. There was the sharp challenge of a guard, unanswered; the futile hiss of a weapon. The improvised shield wedged on a narrowing stairway. Tolto let it stick, ran up alone. The stairway went round and round, climbing ever higher. The fugitive's lungs were bursting. At last he came to an airlock. He did not know how to operate it, so smashed through. There was no rush of air, because the pressure had already been equalized in the rush to the wreck at ground level. Panting, listening for pursuers, Tolto looked around. He found himself on a circular roof, bare except for the airlock and a number of upright posts, whitened by the Sun. It was some moments before he saw the unconscious figure of a man lying on the very edge of the lofty tower on which he was standing--a man naked and blackened. He was lying on his face, one arm and one foot hanging over space as though he had fallen unconscious at the very edge of the abyss. Tolto collected his excited wits. This, at least was no enemy. His enemies were in power here. This must be a victim, a possible ally. The man was stirring. The overhanging arm was feebly trying to grasp something. If he were to roll over-- He did not have time. Tolto dragged him in to the safety of the airlock opening, where he could watch. There were sounds of pursuit, faint and cautious. Tolto grinned at the naked stranger. "Who are you, little bug?" he asked. Sime Hemingway tried to tell him but his swollen tongue would not behave. Instead, he waved in the general direction of the Sun. Tolto understood. "From Earth? Good guy, prob'ly. Want this dingus?" * * * * * Sime was able to take the neuro-pistol. He knew what was expected of him, and strove to collect his faculties so he could obey orders. He crawled a little way into the lock, where he could be in comparative darkness, setting the little focalizer wheel at the side of the pistol for maximum concentration. Such a beam would require good aiming, being narrow, but if it touched a vital center would be infallibly fatal.