His was covered with slime. His clothing was torn and ripped. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his B-pistol. His right shoulder ached, he could hardly move his arm. Bones broken, probably. He was too numb and dazed to care. He lay face-down in the sticky muck and closed his eyes. He didn’t have a chance. Nobody survived in the bogs. He feebly smashed an insect oozing across his neck. It squirmed in his hand and then, reluctantly, died. For a long time, its dead legs kicked. The probing stalk of a stringing snail began tracing webs across Tate’s inert body. As the sticky pressure of the snail crept heavily onto him, he heard the first faint fat-off sounds of the camp going into action. For a time, it meant nothing to him Then he understood-and shuddered miserably, helplessly. The first phase of the big offensive against Earth was already moving into high gear.
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