"Now get moving down those stairs!" ordered Sinclair. "One more funny move out of either of you and I'll do more than just freeze you."
"What are you going to do with us?" asked Roger.
"As I said, you are going to help me escape. This time the Solar Guard has won. But there are other planets, other people who need strong leadership and who like to put on uniforms and play soldier. People will always find reason to rebel against authority, and I will be there to channel their frustrations into my own plans. Perhaps it will be Mars. Or Ganymede. Or even Titan. Another name, another plan, and once again the Solar Guard will have to fight me. Only next time, I assure you, it is I who will win!"
"There won't be any next time," growled Roger. "You're washed up now. This base is swarming with Marines. How do you think you're going to get out of here?"
"You shall see, my friend. You shall see!"
Sinclair motioned them toward a door on the ground floor. "Open it!" demanded Sinclair. Tom opened it and stepped inside. It was a cleaner's closet, crammed with old-fashioned mops and pails and dirty rags. Sinclair pushed Roger inside and was about to follow when several green-clad guards came running down the hall toward them.
"Lactu! Lactu!" they shouted frantically. "They're pouring into the base! The Solar Guard—they've got us surrounded!"
"Keep fighting!" snapped Sinclair. "Don't surrender! Inflict as much damage as possible!"
"Where—where are you going?" asked one of the men, looking at the closet speculatively.
"Never mind me!" barked Sinclair. "Do as I tell you. Fight back!"