Hunt the Space-Witch! by Robert Silverberg

buildings, saw figures moving about in the city. The hated enemy, he thought. The strangers.
    â€œDown the hill! ” he shouted.
    Coolly and efficiently, the twenty-three men peeled off down the slope and into the city. Harkins felt ash and slag crunch underfoot as he ran with them. The Tunnel City people were still unaware of the approaching force; Harkins found himself hoping they’d hear the sound in time. He wanted a battle, not a massacre.
    He turned to Katha as they ran. “As soon as the battle’s going well and everyone’s busy, you and I are going into the tunnel.”
    â€œNo! I won’t go with you!”
    â€œThere’s nothing to be afraid of,” Harkins said impatiently. “We—”
    He stopped. The Tunnel City men had heard, now, and they came pouring out of their skyscraper home, ready to defend themselves.
    The two forces came crashing together with audible impact. Harkins deliberately hung back, not out of cowardice but out of a lack of killing desire; it was more important that he survive and reach the tunnels.
    One of his men drew first blood, plunging his knife into the breast of a brawny city-dweller. There was immediate retaliation; a club descended, and the killer toppled. Harkins glanced uneasily upward, wondering if the Star Giants were watching—and, if so, whether they were enjoying the spectacle.
    He edged back from the milling mob and watched with satisfaction as the two forces drove at each other repeatedly. He nudged Katha. “The battle’s well under way. Let’s go to the tunnel.”
    â€œI’d rather fight.”
    â€œI know. But I need you down there.” He grabbed her arm and whirled her around. “Are you turning coward now, Katha?”
    â€œI—”
    â€œThere’s nothing to be afraid of.” He pulled her close, and kissed her roughly. “Come on, now—unless you’re afraid.”
    She paused, fighting within herself for a moment. “All right,” she agreed finally.
    They backed surreptitiously away from the scene of the conflict and ducked around a slagheap in the direction of a narrow street.
    â€œLook out!” Katha cried suddenly.
    Harkins ducked, but a knife humming through the air sliced through the flesh of his shoulder. A hot stream of blood poured down over his arm, but the wound was not serious.
    He glanced around and saw who had thrown the knife. It was Dujar, the sleepy-eyed villager, who was standing on a heap of twisted metal, staring down wide-eyed at them as if unable to accept the fact that his aim had been faulty.
    â€œKill him!” Katha said sharply. “Kill the traitor, Harkins!”
    Puzzled, Harkins turned back and started to scramble up the slagheap to reach Dujar. The villager finally snapped from his stasis and began to run, taking long-legged, awkward, rabbity strides.
    Harkins bent, picked up a football-sized lump of slag, hurled it at the fleeing man’s back. Dujar stumbled, fell, tried to get up. Harkins ran to him.
    Dujar lifted himself from the ground and flung himself at Harkins’ throat. Harkins smashed a fist into the villager’s face, another into his stomach. Dujar doubled up.
    Harkins seized him. “Did you throw that knife?”
    No response. Harkins caught the terrified man by the throat and shook him violently. “Answer me!”
    â€œY-yes,” Dujar finally managed to say. “I threw it.”
    â€œWhy? Didn’t you know who I was?”
    The villager moaned piteously. “I knew who you were,” he said.
    â€œHurry,” Katha urged. “Kill the worm, and let’s get on to what we have to do.”
    â€œJust wait a minute,” Harkins said. He shook Dujar again. “Why did you throw that knife?”
    Dujar was silent for a moment, his mouth working incoherently. Then: “Elsa … told me to do it. She … said she’d poison me unless I killed you and Katha.” He