Mists of Dawn (94 page)

It was
not
yet
dark,
and
would
not
be
for
at
least 
another
hour,
but
the
light
was
already
uncertain.

The
shadows
that
striped
the
plains
were
confusing; 
at
a
distance
of
a
hundred
yards,
a
bush
and
a crouching
man
looked
too
much
alike
to
make
for absolute
comfort.

The
two
men
and
the
dog
did
not
slacken
their
pace, but
Tlaxcan
tossed
a
questioning
look
at
Mark.
Mark clenched
his
fists,
unsure
of
what
he
ought
to
do.
It would
be
rough
indeed
to
turn
back
with
his
goal
almost
in
sight,
but
on
the
other
hand
it
would
certainly not
do
to
plunge
on
to
their
deaths
on
a
wild-goose chase.
Tlaxcan,
of
course,
had
no
interest
in
the
space-time
machine,
and
indeed
did
not
even
know
of
its existence.
He
could
not
abandon
Tlaxcan
to
his
fate just
to
make
good
Ins
own
escape.

Then
he
saw
it,
actually
saw
the
great
sphere
of
the space-time
machine
bubbling
up
out
of
the
grasses where
he
had
left
it.
And
at
the
same
time
he
saw, right
smack
in
front
of
him,
the
Neanderthals.

The
two
fugitives
had
doubled
low
and
crept
back 
through
the
fading
light
to
wait
for
them.
They
were through
running—they
were
ready
to
fight.

Tlaxcan
skidded
to
a
halt
and
whipped
an
arrow
into his
bow.
Mark
was
unable
to
stop;
he
simply
had
to veer
off
to
one
side
to
avoid
running
right
into
a
half-man’s
waiting
spear.
Heart
pounding
wildly,
he
slipped and
fell
in
the
tall
grass.
He
hit
rolling,
and
snatched out
his
.45
as
he
rolled.
He
came
up
on
all
fours,
the
.45 ready
in
his
hand,
and
instantly
was
confronted
by
a terrible
problem.
Tlaxcan
had
not
succeeded
in
loosing an
arrow
in
time,
and
the
more
powerful
Neanderthal had
him
down
flat
on
the
ground,
trying
to
slit
his throat
with
a
stone
knife.
Tlaxcan
was
obviously
nearly unconscious
and
his
strength
was
slipping.
The
other Neanderthal
was
crouching
low
for
the
kill,
moving toward
Mark
through
the
tall
grass.

Mark
had
one
bullet
left
in
his
.45.

He
did
not
hesitate;
there
was
no
time
to
think.
Mark took
careful
aim,
squeezed
the
trigger,
and
the
half-man
threatening
Tlaxcan
dropped
as
though
he
had been
clubbed
with
a
crowbar.
Mark
at
once
threw
the empty
gun
with
all
his
might
into
the
bestial
face
of the
advancing
Mroxor.
The
weapon
struck
home,
staggering
the
Neanderthal
for
a
moment.
Mark
leaped
to his
feet
and
grabbed
up
his
spear,
and
was
dismayed to
see
that
the
point
had
broken
off
in
his
fall.

The
half-man
recovered
himself
and
moved
in
again, a
stone
knife
in
his
hand.
Mark
gave
ground,
using
the shaft
of
his
broken
lance
as
a
fencing
weapon
to
keep the
Mroxor
at
bay.
He
jabbed
desperately,
backing
all the
while,
knowing
that
he
was
no
match
for
the
Neanderthal
in
brute
strength.
If
the
half-man
could
once get
his
viselike
hands
on
him,
he
would
tear
him
to pieces.

Mark
thrust
and
clubbed,
keeping
on
the
move.
He could
smell
the
Neanderthal’s
sweating
nearness,
see the
red
blood-lust
in
the
thing’s
eyes
as
he
stalked
him. Mark’s
blood
ran
cold
and
he
fought
in
a
kind
of
daze, knowing
that
he
was
tired
from
his
long
run
and
that his
strength
was
failing
him.

He
could
not
escape.
He
knew
that
now
with
icy certainty.
He
would
have
to
stand
and
fight
while
some power
was
still
left
in
his
muscles.
But
he
didn’t
fool himself.
The
barrel-chested
Neanderthal
could
break him
in
two
as
easily
as
snapping
a
twig!

Mark
had
no
choice.
He
stopped
and
stood
his ground,
using
the
spear
shaft
alternately
as
a
jabbing weapon
and
as
a
light
club.
It
was
too
light,
however; time
and
again,
he
connected
with
a
solid
blow
on
the side
of
the
half-man’s
hairy
head,
but
the
Mroxor
just blinked
his
sunken
eyes
and
kept
on
coming.