In that half-light tossing arms and legs looked
like tentacles flung out in agony by the mammoth reptile. Its progress
was jerky and convulsive, sometimes tortuous, but it traveled slowly
toward the rail as if by the impulsion of an irresistible pressure.
Even as he ran toward the mass, Elliot noticed that the only sounds were
grunts, stertorous breathings, and the scraping of feet. The attackers
wanted no publicity. The attacked was too busy to waste breath in futile
cries. He was fighting for his life with all the stark energy nature and
his ancestors had given him.
Two men, separated from the crowd, lay on the deck farther aft. One was
on top of the other, his fingers clutching the gullet of his helpless
opponent. The agony of the man underneath found expression only in the
drumming heels that beat a tattoo on the floor. The spasmodic feet were
shod in Oxford tans of an ultra-fashionable cut. No doubt the owner of
the smart footwear had been pulled down as he was escaping to shout the
alarm.
The runner hurdled the two in his stride and plunged straight at the
struggling tangle. He caught one man by the shoulders from behind and
flung him back. He struck hard, smashing blows as he fought his way to
the heart of the melee.
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