Carmody climbed and clawed and scrabbled up the tuff cone’s slope. Sweat spilled down his face and into his eyes. He took off his helmet and tossed it to the ground. It was nothing but an impediment to him right now.

He climbed faster, his feet slipping on the dirt. He could see that Grigor had a rifle on his shoulder. Once he reached the rim, he would have a perfect vantage for firing it downslope. Carmody would be a sitting duck on the trail below him.

He climbed. He was getting closer to Grigor. Maybe ten yards behind him now. The slope grew almost vertical as it neared the brow of the crater. He climbed. Gaining maybe another five yards.

Then Grigor was just above him. He pushed himself up the trail, harder, faster. He was drenched in perspiration. His chest hurt from bruises and exertion.

Grigor was almost at the brow. He reached one hand over it and dug his fingers into the tuff and was hauling himself up onto it.

Carmody lunged. He grabbed Grigor’s legs with one hand, then the other, and pulled himself up along and over them. Grigor tried to kick him off, but Carmody held on and climbed up onto his back, pinning him down, his chest pressing against Grigor’s shoulder pack.

For a moment Grigor lay flat on his belly. But only for a moment. Then he heaved up and rolled around with surprising strength, and all at once he was on his back with Carmody on top of him, the two of them face-to-face on the rim of the crater.

He punched Carmody’s arm where he’d been shot. Carmody returned the favor, grabbed the right side of Grigor’s abdomen and dug in his fingers. He felt the soggy warmth of the bandages under his shirt and grabbed his side more tightly, as though he was trying to tear out a chunk of his flesh.

Grigor groaned softly. He clawed for a rock and picked it up and smashed it against the back of Carmody’s head and then repeatedly pounded it against his shoulder above the gunshot wound. Carmody felt it open up wide. Felt blood pouring out of it. Now his scalp was bleeding too. He clenched his teeth and got his fingers deeper into Grigor’s side. The shirt there was permeated with blood. His fingers were wet and slippery.

They were still face-to-face. Eye to eye. Their noses almost touching. Carmody realized Grigor had let go of the rock in his hand. He was going for something under his shirt.

The knife. Grigor had gotten his fist around the handle.

Carmody grabbed his wrist to try and hold it down. But Grigor again surprised him with his strength. His arm came up, slowly, straining against Carmody’s downward pressure. The blade rising in his fist like a silver fang, its tip inches from Carmody’s cheek.