And I was thinking right for a change. The two survivors were screaming in _AM_ or _FM_, whatever they used for private conversation and cuss words. I could see their antennae waggle, but I wasn't tuned in on their network. The other twelve seemed to understand. They all joined appendages and started toward me. It looked like the camel corps storming Khartoum, except that these weren't camels and they were slinging enough electricity to light a small city. I hated to think of the heat that would be generated if a bolt hit me. Even if they didn't get enough of a charge into me, my Achilles heel would be obvious once they saw that voltage, continually applied to a resistance unit, will make it rosy red-hot. On came the Martians. Their soft, padded feet, looking so much like those of camels, sent a dust cloud rolling behind them. I lifted my rifle and aimed carefully at the middle of the line. This was my last explosive bullet and it had to produce spectacular results. I pressed the trigger and a flash of flame marked the spot where one of their number had ended his last charge. The line was broken, the others hesitated. But six or seven Martians could swing heavy lightning and I had to break the two segments again. Had they attacked in two groups they could have fried me where I stood, but they didn't realize it. I flipped my gun to automatic while the two groups consolidated. Now I cut loose. I didn't aim. Who knows what's a vital spot in a Martian? I just held down the trigger and swept the line from left to right. Half the Martians fell thrashing to the ground. But my magazine was empty. I transferred the rifle to my left hand and pawed at the automatic in the holster at my side. The seven or eight uninjured Martians were trying to consolidate, and I wasn't having any of it. Again I aimed at the center, to cut the voltage in half. The Martians had just managed to form a series again and flame lashed into the ground at my feet, but they were crazy with fear or rage or some Martian version of a terrestrial emotion and they didn't aim true. Then I banged at them until my pistol was empty. The line was chopped in three places but there were still five Martians left. They were game creatures, for they came on desperately. Self-preservation, race-preservation, all the things we talked about including heroes and martyrs, were in this final charge. My pistol was empty, my rifle was empty and I was a sitting duck with no time to reload. But I worked at it and as I did I heard a faint puffing sound, like the pop of popcorn. Mars is almost silent, but not quite. There is enough air to transmit the sound of a loud noise near at hand. Even though every split instant was precious, I glanced quickly to my right. Gail Loring was there, clad in a spacesuit, holding her automatic pistol with both hands. The gun was bucking and kicking and making that puffing noise.