Jimmy's head was still reeling dizzily from a blow dealt him by a flying chunk of rock, and he saw the onrushing Trust man through a haze. Garth's fist bludgeoned into his jaw. Another blow drove into his midsection, sent a wave of nausea sweeping through him. And then a picture of his father lying helpless on the study floor shot into his mind's eye; with it came a sudden realization of all that the superiors class—Garth's class—stood for. He snapped his fists forward and began to hit with all the strength he possessed at the face before him. He was still flailing his arms in and out, when Hanley stepped in and pulled him back.
It was the following morning, and the tracto-car was speeding smoothly down Canal Grand. In the driver's seat sat Jimmy Starr, a bandage on his temple, a smile on his face.
Beside him was Linda Hall, and in the rear tonneau Phil Hanley held a heat gun to cover the bound figure of Hamilton Garth.
"We did it," Jimmy said at length. "The figurine cache is destroyed forever."
The girl nodded.
"And the canal project won't be abandoned either," Jimmy continued. "That explosion opened up a shaft leading to a still lower crypt where there's enough pure pxar ingots stored to build all the canal locks the engineers need. Pure pxar. Not the figurine kind."
Linda nodded again.
"What I want to know is this," she said. "I know that that tube you threw into the vault didn't go off the first time because the detonator-cap didn't hit. But what kind of explosive is setro-frenalot? I never heard of it.
"Neither did I," Jimmy laughed. "It goes back to the juke box age of the twentieth century. In other words, double talk."