Broward felt a sting on his cheek as he rolled behind the bank. He put his hand on his cheek, and, when he took it away, he saw his hand covered with blood. But his probing finger felt only a shallow of flesh. He forgot about the wound. Even if it had been more serious, he would have had no time to take care of it. A South African stepped around the corner of the bank, firing as he came. Broward shot twice with his .45. The dark-brown face showered into red and lost its human shape. The body to which it was now loosely attached curved backwards and fell on the floor. * * * * * "Broward!" called Scone above the twang and boom of the guns and the wharoop! of a bomb. "Can you see anything? I can't even stick my head around the corner without being shot at." Broward looked at Scone, who was crouched at the other end of the bank. Scone's back was to Broward, but Scone's head was twisted far enough for him to see Broward out of the corner of his eye. Even at that moment, when Broward's thoughts should have excluded everything but the fight, he could not help comparing Scone's profile to a face cut out of rock. The high bulbous forehead, thick bars of bone over the eyes, Dantesque nose, thin lips, and chin jutting out like a shelf of granite, more like a natural formation which happened to resemble a chin than anything which had taken shape in a human womb. Ugly, massive, but strong. Nothing of panic or fear in that face; it was as steady as his voice. Old Gibraltar-face, thought Broward for perhaps the hundredth time. But this time he did not feel dislike. "I can't see any more than you--Colonel," he said. Scone, still squatting, shifted around until he could bring one eye to bear fully on Broward. It was a pale blue, so pale it looked empty, unhuman. "Colonel?" "Now," said Broward. "A bomb got General Mansfield and Colonels Omato and Ingrass. That gives you a fast promotion, sir." "We'll both be promoted above this bank if an Axe lobs a bomb over," said Scone. "We have to get out of here." "To where?" Scone frowned--granite wrinkling--and said, "It's obvious the Axes want to do more than murder a few Soviets. They must plan on getting control of the bonephones. I know I would if I were they. If they can capture the control center, every Soviet on the Moon--except for the Chinese--is at their mercy. So...." "We make a run for the BR?" "I'm not ordering you to come with me," said Scone. "That's almost suicide. But you will give me a covering fire." "I'll go with you, Colonel." Scone glanced at the caduceuses on Broward's lapels, and he said, "We'll need your professional help after we clean out the Axes. No." "You need my amateurish help now," said Broward. "As you see"--he jerked his thumb at the nearly headless Zulu--"I can handle a gun. And if we don't get to the bonephone controls first, life won't be worth living. Besides, I don't think the Axes intend taking any prisoners."