Chapter Fourteen

'They're going to kill us!'

'Run!'

'Got to get out of here.'

Lethbridge-Stewart turned to his men. 'Let them through. Try to help the injured,' he bellowed.

But it was the best that his men could do to stand their ground. They were trained in crowd control techniques, the subtle and not so subtle ways that a man in a uniform could manipulate a mass of people. None of the crowd were thinking, they only wanted to get away. So the UNIT men did the thinking for them, channelling them off into three or four columns, slowing them down, spreading them out. Other troops were clearing the bottlenecks, pulling the injured clear or making room for them.

The Brigadier was trying to keep track of the whole scene, from the activity of the warship to the dynamics of the crowd. It was an impossible task.

'Something moving up there.'

As he looked up, a young woman collided with Lethbridge-Stewart, almost bringing them both down. She was already on her way. He peered up, trying to catch his breath.

'It's the platform,' he called out. 'That lift thing. It'll be heading for Xznaal.'

The disc was dropping slowly but inexorably.

Bambera appeared at his side, the shoulder of her uniform jacket ripped. 'This could be our last chance to take him out.'

The Brigadier shook his head. 'The Martians would retaliate,' he called.

The platform had dropped below head-height. Xznaal was still visible, towering over the crowd. The Martian mounted the platform, a laborious movement.

The radio squawked. 'Trap Two to Greyhound. There's a mob of people heading for the Tower, sir. They're throwing bottles and stones at the Government troops. They'll... sir, there's gunfire. Both sides.'