Thank you, God. Thank you God. Thank you . . .
(For this little while more, for this little while more for the race of Man; I am the last of Man, You know—)
He prayed thank you, but he did not pray for more, because this was already more than he deserved; the Almighty had been merciful, compassionate and merciful, and he could not ask for more, in no way dared ask—
The thunder seemed straight above him.
The sound of his own laughter had drowned it out at first, and then the two had mingled, and then as he stood gasping for new breath, as his hoarse voice rested, he heard it—welling as if from a great heavy throat, and now rising to a baleful cry, then falling—falling gently, and now a new thunder to drown it, a mightier thunder than the first.
Joshua Thorn stood transfixed as he watched the gleaming bullet-shape descend its pillar of fire. It could have been twin to Vanguard-I. It was descending—it was—maneuvering to be near him!
From somewhere far back in his brain the words formed again, and Mrs. Grundy here’s dirt for you—you may have a new neighbor in your block but not like you at all—probably a world between you—don’t take any wooden nickels . . .
But Daddy-o could never know, would never comprehend—
He was running, stumbling, falling, running again toward the spot where the red-starred satellite of the Enemy (Enemy, what a madman’s word now!) would land.
Running like a child, running like an idiot, arms waving, mouth laughing, throat shouting—
Thank you, oh Thank you God . . .
He was within twenty yards of the craft when its outer lock opened. Fifteen when the uniformed figure who stepped out caught sight and sound of him, ten when die rifle was aimed at him, five before he could comprehend the mindless meaning of it—
But we are the only two human beings left! his brain whimpered . . .
All of the Enemy must die! a remembering part of his mind intoned . . . But someone had trained the Enemy, too.
The scarlet insigne emblazoned on the streamlined metal shell seemed on fire in the filtered Venusian sunlight.
Thorn’s plunging hands grabbed the muzzle of the weapon even as it fired, wrenched it aside without feeling the hurt where his left earlobe had been.
“Great God, you imbecile—”
Twisting the weapon, struggling, trigger-finger constricting to fire again, a Anal, sudden twist, the finger wrenched against the trigger even as the butt was swinging upward, the muzzle swinging down . . .
The muffled explosion.
The gaping, oozing hole in the Enemy’s breast.
Joshua Thorn looked down at the crumpled figure, watched as the slow-moving shadow of a cloud eddied across it.
He tried to sob, for he could not pray again.
He turned. Back toward Vanguard-I. If only he could cry.
Behind him, the Enemy lay dead. All, now, all of the Enemy . . . was dead.
Her body would soon be turning cold.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 59