It was like a dream scene to Francine. The men carried weapons. She stopped, saw the gleam of sunlight on metal, heard the peculiar crunch-crunch of men running in sand. Through a dreamy haze she recognized one of the runners: Zakheim. He carried a large black box on his shoulders. His red hair flamed out in the group like a target. _The Russians!_ she thought. _They've started their attack! If our people join them now, it's the end!_ A machinegun stuttered somewhere to her right. Dust puffs walked across the concourse, swept into the running figures. Men collapsed, but others still slogged toward the spaceship. An explosion lifted the leaders, sent them sprawling. Again, the machinegun chattered. Dark figures lay on the sand like thrown dominoes. But still a few continued their mad charge. MP's in American uniforms ran out from between the buildings on the right. The leaders carried submachineguns. _We're stopping the attack_, thought Francine. But she knew the change of tactics did not mean a rejection of violence by Speidel and the others. It was only a move to keep the Russians from taking the lead. She clenched her fists, ignored the fact that she stood exposed--a lone figure in the middle of the concourse. Her senses registered an eerie feeling of unreality. Machineguns renewed their chatter and then--abrupt silence. But now the last of the Russians had fallen. Pursuing MP's staggered. Several stopped, wrenched at their guns. Francine's shock gave way to cold rage. She moved forward, slowly at first and then striding. Off to the left someone shouted: "Hey! Lady! Get down!" She ignored the voice. There on the sand ahead was Zakheim's pitiful crumpled figure. A gritty redness spread around his chest. Someone ran from between the buildings on her left, waved at her to go back. _Hiko!_ But she continued her purposeful stride, compelled beyond any conscious willing to stop. She saw the red-headed figure on the sand as though she peered down a tunnel. Part of her mind registered the fact that Hiko stumbled, slowing his running charge to intercept her. He looked like a man clawing his way through water. _Dear Hiko_, she thought. _I have to get to Zak. Poor foolish Zak. That's what was wrong with him the other day at the conference. He knew about this attack and was afraid._ Something congealed around her feet, spread upward over her ankles, quickly surged over her knees. She could see nothing unusual, but it was as though she had plowed into a pool of molasses. Every step took terrible effort. The molasses pool moved above her hips, her waist. _So that's why Hiko and the MP's are moving so slowly_, she thought. _It's a defensive weapon from the ship. Must be._