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from the rocky cover behind Johnny, someone had fired a weapon at the remaining bandits. The initial muzzle flash reached the Gronk at the speed of light but the missile itself plodded far behind with the relative slowness of a recalcitrant donkey.
    While its body twitched and jittered, the Gronk's shakey-cam eyes focused on the new arrival: a rocket-propelled grenade, lazily arcing over Johnny's head, its supersonic wake causing the desert air to shimmer. It spun as it flew, slow enough for the Gronk to read the serial number on its side, and the maker's designation - Day series, High-Explosive. Handle with Care. Made in Taiwan.
    Of course, thought the Gronk in satisfaction. Mister Johnny wouldn't have come alone. From somewhere among the rocks, Wulf Sternhammer had just unleashed a thunderbolt from the north. The grenade was an unimaginative dark green, tipped by a long, fearsome spike, a gyve designed to crumple on impact and set off a large explosion.
    "Eek," said the Gronk's upper mouth, involuntarily. The simple exclamation, once begun, could not be stopped, causing the Gronk's next subjective minute or so to gain an annoying background shriek. Its own prolonged scream causing its skull to vibrate, the Gronk told its stumpy little legs to scamper in the safest direction possible. Considering the approaching grenade and the gun-toting bandits, the Gronk figured the safest direction to run was towards Johnny Alpha.
    Swaying and lurching against its own juddermine-pumped muscles, the Gronk began to advance while the rocket-propelled grenade continued its slow and lazy passage overhead. The Gronk and the grenade passed each other halfway between Johnny and the bandits, the heat pressing uncomfortably against the Gronk's fur. But despite the burning sensation, the Gronk was pleased with itself. Standing this close to a grenade in flight might be nasty, but it was nothing compared to being caught in the explosion. Burning alive while doped up on juddermine was not an experience any Gronk should endure. Dying could take subjective months.
    The Gronk swivelled its head to look forward at Johnny Alpha. He was still several feet away, the dust of his fall still hanging above him like a low red cloud, a smoke ring from his gunshot floating in the air before him. He was firing his Westinghouse a second time.
    Humans don't have the benefit of juddermine. Their actions are agonisingly slow to a panicking Gronk. Johnny didn't have time to admire the scenery. For him, only a second had passed since he let off his first bullet and he had no option but to remain on autopilot. With inexorably dumb human reflexes, Johnny's finger pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet at ground level. Spinning considerably faster than the lazy grenade, a number two jack round shot out of the muzzle and straight for the Gronk.
    Belatedly, the Gronk came to understand that running towards a man in the middle of a gunfight could have its drawbacks.
    "Eek," said the Gronk's lower mouth, adding to the ear-splitting whine of the earlier scream.
    Throwing itself to the ground was out. Gravity would take at least half a second to take hold. Its momentum would not allow it to go far enough to the left or right to dodge in time. There was only one option, and that was to use the full power of its juddermine-augmented muscles.
    The Gronk jumped. It sprang into the air with all the might of its tiny, chemically altered limbs, leapfrogging the bullet even as it tore past on its way towards its target. With the subjective speed of an eager rat, the bullet sped safely between the Gronk's legs, but now the Gronk had another reason to panic.
    It was designed for scuttling, not taking athletic bounds. Its stumpy legs had given it a bit too much forward momentum, and now it was slowly executing an unstoppable mid-air somersault.
    The Gronk flapped all four of its arms ineffectually. For a moment it was parallel with the ground, flying like a furry superhero, and then its