 What would have happened if Allen's blaster had not run out of charge?
Frowning, worrying about the sounds, Alan momentarily forgot to watch his step until his foot suddenly plunged into an ant hill, throwing him to the jungle floor. Beyond, nose high, stood the silver scout ship that had brought the advance exploratory party of scientists and technicians to Waiamea three days before. He stepped forward just as a roar of blue flame dissolved the branches of a tree, barely above his head. Without pausing to think, Alan leaped back, and fell sprawling over a bush just as one of the robots rolled silently up from the right, lowering its blaster barrel to aim directly at his head. With an awkward jerk the robot swung around and fired its blaster, completely dissolving the lower half of the cat creature which had clung across the barrel. But the back pressure of the cat's body overloaded the discharge circuits. The robot started to shake, then clicked sharply as an overload relay snapped and shorted the blaster cells. The metal killers, tuned to blast any living flesh, would murder them the instant they stepped from the ship! Blaster ready, Alan rolled over onto his back. In the movement, his elbow struck the top of a small earthy mound and he was instantly engulfed in a swarm of locust-like insects that beat disgustingly against his eyes and mouth. The planet's double moon had risen and he could see a robot rolling slowly across the clearing in his general direction, blasting indiscriminately at whatever mind impulses came within its pickup range, birds, insects, anything. Apparently the robot hadn't sensed him yet, but Alan didn't know what the effective range of its pickup devices was. Minutes later, looking back he saw that the machine, though several hundred yards away, had altered its course and was now headed directly for him. Powerful as a small tank, the killer robot was equipped to crush, slash, and burn its way through undergrowth. The twin moons cast pale, deceptive shadows that wavered and danced across the jungle floor, hiding debris that tripped him and often sent him sprawling into the dark. Behind, the robot crashed imperturbably after him, lighting the night with fitful blaster flashes as some winged or legged life came within its range. His foot tripped on a barely visible insect hill and a winged swarm exploded around him. Patches of black scraped off onto branches and vines, but the rest spread slowly over his arm as agonizing as hot acid, or as flesh being ripped away layer by layer.
 He would still have hit the switch, ending the story the same way.
 He would still have hit the switch, ending the story the same way.  He would have been able to shoot the switch from where he stood instead of having to make a run for it.  He would have accidentally cut off communication with other ships.  He would have been able to shoot down the robots and not need to hit the switch.