Keith had no time to judge
their number, for his brain was centered in the race with Kao's
derringer. He saw its silver mountings flash in the candle-glow, saw
its spurt of smoke and fire. But its report was drowned in the roar of
his automatic as it replied with a stream of lead and flame. He saw the
derringer fall and Kao crumple up like a jackknife. His brain turned
red as he swung his weapon on the others, and as he fired, he backed
toward the door. Then something caught him from behind, twisting his
head almost from his shoulders, and he went down.
He lost his automatic. Weight of bodies was upon him; yellow hands
clutched for his throat; he felt hot breaths and heard throaty cries. A
madness of horror possessed him, a horror that was like the blind
madness of Laocoon struggling with his sons in the coils of the giant
serpent. In these moments he was not fighting men. They were monsters,
yellow, foul-smelling, unhuman, and he fought as Laocoon fought. As if
it had been a cane, he snapped the bone of an arm whose hand was
throttling him; he twisted back a head until it snapped between its
shoulders; he struck and broke with a blind fury and a giant strength,
until at last, torn and covered with blood, he leaped free and reached
the door.
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