Exile | Page 6

error of over six feet.
He felt his face flushing with sudden anger. Birken was running as best he could toward the spaceship, and had covered nearly half the distance.
Kinton ran at the Tepoktans, brushing aside the concerned Klaft. He snatched the heavy weapon from the surprised constable.
He turned and raised it to his chest. Because of the shortness of Tepoktan arms, the launcher was constructed so that the butt rested against the chest with the sighting loops before the eyes. The little rocket tubes were above head height, to prevent the handler's catching the blast.
The circles of the sights weaved and danced about the running figure. Kinton realized to his surprise that the effort of seizing the weapon had him panting. Or was it the fright at having a spear thrown at him? He decided that Birken had not come close enough for that, and wondered if he was afraid of his own impending action.
It wasn't fair, he complained to himself. The poor slob only had a spear, and a man couldn't blame him for wanting to get back to his own sort. He was limping ... hurt ... how could they expect him to realize--?
Then, abruptly, his lips tightened to a thin line. The sights steadied on Birken as the latter approached the foot of the ladder leading to the entrance port of the spaceship.
Kinton pressed the firing stud.
Across the hundred-yard space streaked four flaring little projectiles. Kinton, without exactly seeing each, was aware of the general lines of flight diverging gradually to bracket the figure of Birken.
One struck the ground beside the man just as he set one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, and skittered away past one fin of the ship before exploding. Two others burst against the hull, scattering metal fragments, and another puffed on the upright of the ladder just above Birken's head.
* * * * *
The spaceman was blown back from the ladder. He balanced on his heels for a moment with outstretched fingers reaching toward the grips from which they had been torn. Then he crumpled into a limp huddle on the yellowing turf.
Kinton sighed.
The constable took the weapon from him, reloaded deftly, and proffered it again. When the Terran did not reach for it, the officer held out a clawed hand to receive it. He gestured silently, and the constable trotted across the intervening ground to bend over Birken.
"He is dead," said Klaft when the constable straightened up with a curt wave.
"Will ... will you have someone see to him, please?" Kinton requested, turning toward the helicopter.
"Yes, George," said Klaft. "George...?"
"Well?"
"It would be very instructive--that is, I believe Dr. Chuxolkhee would like to--"
"All right!" yielded Kinton, surprised at the harshness of his own voice. "Just tell him not to bring around any sketches of the various organs for a few months!"
He climbed into the helicopter and slumped into his seat. Presently, he was aware of Klaft edging into the seat across the aisle. He looked up.
"The police will stay until cars from town arrive. They are coming now," said his aide.
* * * * *
Kinton stared at his hands, wondering at the fact that they were not shaking. He felt dejected, empty, not like a man who had just been at a high pitch of excitement.
"Why did you not let him go, George?"
"What? Why ... why ... he would have destroyed the ship you worked so hard to build. There is no safe path through the Dome of Eyes."
"No predictable path," Klaft corrected. "But what then? We would have built you another ship, George, for it was you who showed us how."
Kinton flexed his fingers slowly.
"He was just no good. You know the murder he did here; we can only guess what he did among my own ... among Terrans. Should he have a chance to go back and commit more crimes?"
"I understand, George, the logic of it," said Klaft. "I meant ... it is not my place to say this ... but you seem unhappy."
"Possibly," grunted Kinton wrily.
"We, too, have criminals," said the aide, as gently as was possible in his clicking language. "We do not think it necessary to grieve for the pain they bring upon themselves."
"No, I suppose not," sighed Kinton. "I ... it's just--"
He looked up at the pointed visage, at the strange eyes regarding him sympathetically from beneath the sloping, purple-scaled forehead.
"It's just that now I'm lonely ... again," he said.

Transcriber's Note:
This e-text was produced from Space Science Fiction February 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Exile, by Horace Brown Fyfe
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXILE ***
***** This file should be named 22346.txt or 22346.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will