It’s been circling me for ten minutes now, moving in, backing off, testing to see what this alien contraption with meat in it is, and how it will behave.
If it decides not to attack, I’ll live: the sun will come up and the batteries will recharge, and I’ll simply drive back to the LZ. But If it’s brave or simply hungry enough, I’m dead. The rollaround’s transparent cockpit is thin plastic, and those claws look razor-sharp. The best I can hope for is that I’ll be poison to it, and it’ll die retching with me still in its gut.
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