Mists of Dawn (95 page)

It
was
only
a
question
of
time.
The
Neanderthal
had been
waiting
his
chance,
and
when
Mark’s
swing
was just
a
trifle
off
its
target,
the
half-man
caught
the
spear shaft
in
his
long-nailed,
dirty
hand
and
wrested
it
from Mark’s
grasp
with
one
contemptuous
wrench.

Mark
felt
the
cold
hand
of
death
reach
out
for
him once
more.
He
stood
facing
the
Neanderthal
alone, without
arms
of
any
sort.
He
was
too
tired
to
run.
His mind
kept
functioning
somehow,
telling
him
that
at no
cost
must
he
allow
the
half-man
to
wrestle
him,
get him
at
too
close
quarters.

He
would
have
to
box
him.
The
situation
looked hopeless,
but
Mark
was
prepared
to
fight
as
long
as life
burned
within
him.

Smiling
the
grim
smile
of
the
hopeless,
Mark
suddenly
stepped
forward.
With
his
left
he
feinted
at the
surprised
half-man,
and
when
the
Neanderthal clumsily
tried
to
catch
his
fist
Mark
came
up
from
his toes
with
a
sizzling
right
haymaker
that
caught
the half-man
on
the
point
of
his
hair-matted
jaw.

It
was
like
hitting
the
side
of
the
Empire
State
Building.
The
Neanderthal
just
shook
his
head
slowly
and moved
on
in
for
the
kill.
Mark
had
hit
him
with
everything
he
had,
and
it
hadn’t
been
enough.

Frantically,
he
backed
away,
not
taking
his
eyes
off his
foe.
The
half-man
stalked
him
with
a
smothered fury,
his
hands
opening
and
closing
with
unmistakable suggestiveness.
Mark
took
a
deep
breath.
He
could
go no
further.
He
saw
a
jagged,
heavy
stone
lying
in
the grass
near
him,
but
he
knew
that
when
he
bent
to
pick it
up
the
Mroxor
would
be
on
him
like
a
flash
and
that would
be
that.

There
was
nothing
else
to
do.
Mark
dived
for
the stone,
and
the
Neanderthal
snarled
and
leaped
with him.
Mark
closed
his
eyes—and
then
opened
them again
in
amazement.

The
half-man
never
reached
his
prey.
The
wolf-dog, Fang,
had
launched
himself
through
the
air
like
a
juggernaut,
slamming
into
the
thing
and
knocking
it
off balance.
Fang
had
been
with
the
fallen
Tlaxcan,
but now
he
had
rejoined
his
master,
rejoined
him
with
a savage
fury
that
had
the
Neanderthal
fighting
for
his very
life
under
an
onslaught
of
powerful,
snapping jaws
that
ripped
and
tore
at
his
throat.

Mark
jerked
to
his
feet,
swaying,
the
rock
in
his hand.
The
path
to
the
space-time
machine
was
now clear
before
him;
he
had
only
to
run
to
it
and
get
in, leaving
Fang
and
Tlaxcan
to
their
own
devices.
Mark did
not
even
think
about
it,
nor
was
it
heroism
on
his part,
or
stupid
bravery.
It
was
just
the
way
he
was;
he could
no
more
have
abandoned
his
friends
than
he could
have
sprouted
wings
and
flown
away
into
the heavens.