The function of the hotel servants whom Klarnood had gathered up now
became apparent; they advanced, took the body of Marnark by the
heels, and dragged it out of the way. The others watched this removal
with mixed emotions. The two remaining principals were impassive and
frozen-faced. Their two Assassins, who had probably bet heavily on
Marnark, were chagrined. And Klarnood was looking at Verkan Vall with
a considerable accretion of respect. Verkan Vall pulled on his boots
and resumed his clothing.

There followed some argument about the pistols; it was finally decided
that each combatant should use his own shoulder-holster weapon. All
three were nearly enough alike--small weapons, rather heavier than
they looked, firing a tiny ten-grain bullet at ten thousand
foot-seconds. On impact, such a bullet would almost disintegrate; a
man hit anywhere in the body with one would be killed instantly, his
nervous system paralyzed and his heart stopped by internal pressure.
Each of the pistols carried twenty rounds in the magazine.

Verkan Vall and Sirzob of Abo took their places, their pistols lowered
at their sides, facing each other across a measured twenty meters.

"Are you ready, gentlemen?" Klarnood asked. "You will not raise your
pistols until the command to fire; you may fire at will after it.
Ready. _Fire!_"

[Illustration: ]

Both pistols swung up to level. Verkan Vall found Sirzob's head in his
sights and squeezed; the pistol kicked back in his hand, and he saw a