Her sweet, enchanted winds our requiem cry.
For our lost love her gentle south winds sigh.
Earthmen we—
Suddenly, Larson leaped at the nearest Martian. He whipped to one side as an H-gun hurtled to the plastic mesh of the floor. He dived for it. But power rays crackled around him, glanced off walls and smoked through trembling layers of human flesh.
Larson sank slowly to his knees. His lips, thick with awed pain, mumbled heavily, "Give me time to pray." He was looking in startled surprise and horror at the blackened stub where his left hand had been. It happened so fast. A second ago he had a left hand. Now he had no left hand. But that would be so unimportant in a little while. The H-gun lay untouched. Screams rose from writhing forms.
"Throw the damned bomb," yelled Larson weakly. "And let me finish a prayer."
Venard twisted, a slim and gyrating target for thirsting rays. The entire corridor was a carnal room. A streak of flame seared his chest. He cried out, "No time for prayers now. Go on down to hell, Kewpie Doll. At least it's better than the one the Marties had planned for us."
Then he murmured, "Goodbye, Vale, you served a good purpose after all." He hurled the coruscating sphere squarely against the wall beside the oval door. With the same movement his body fell sidewise in a dive to the floor where he was squeezing himself instinctively up against the wall as the concussion shook his brain into smothering dusty greyness.
III