Wild Bill's face went purple. "Then blast us out of here yourself, before they kill us all," he yammered. "You were right! They're on the warpath!"
"No!" Mike refused flatly. "I'm not finished yet."
Bill's language grew luridly unprintable, and when he refused to quit shouting Mike finally gassed him out again.
Then he went back to the Hustic. Mostly he kept it on send, but every few minutes he'd flip over to receive for just a second or two. Then he'd make another infinitesimal adjustment.
Once he froze in his chair. One of his arms was half raised and it stayed that way, unnaturally motionless. He looked like a statue—or a Martie—or someone who had the Malignant Inertia Complex.
"Mike!" I yelled, more frightened than ever.
He shook his head dizzily and flipped the switch out of the receive position.
"Thanks, Swede," he said. "That Thing almost had me that time, but now I've got it."
He twisted the power knob full over. The transformers howled under the overload. He jammed the helmet down more firmly on his head and stood up, staring blankly at the bulkhead as though looking through the solid steel.
"Listen, Thing!" he growled.