"Music for the men of Mars," she murmured. "When we return our own people will rule this planet!" Her eyes, brooding on the earthman, were inscrutable. "Alotah, Stephen Ranson!"
Then she and her father had left the laboratory, and the burly guard was forcing Ranson toward a small iron-barred door at the rear of the room. Bound, helpless, he staggered into the cell, heard the door clang shut behind him. The scarred, ugly guard stationed himself across the laboratory, where he could keep an eye on the cell.
Ranson lay there in the shadows, suddenly bitter. A nice mess he'd made of things! Wanted for murder by Captain Maxwell, tricked by Elath Taen and his daughter when he had them in his grasp, and now a prisoner here, while they sent their musical madness, their deadly supersonic notes, over the planet-wide chain of M.B.C. Ranson knew what that would mean. Except for the Foreign Legion, a few rocket-plane squadrons, Mars was undefended. If Elath Taen's supersonics aroused the reddies to revolt, his dream of making himself emperor of Mars would be at last fulfilled.
Ranson shot a glance at his guard. The scarred little Martian was leaning back in his chair, eyes on the cell door. But it seemed unlikely that he could see what went on within the shadowy cell. In one swift movement the T.I. man smashed his wrist-watch against the wall, then, picking up a sliver of glass with his fingertips, began to saw at his bonds.
At length the ropes fell from Ranson's aching arms. Swiftly he freed his legs. The guard was still sitting in the well-lighted laboratory, unmoved. Ranson glanced at the door. Steel bars, impossible to penetrate. And seconds ticking away!
A dark fighting grin spread over Ranson's lean face. There was one chance. A wild, desperate chance, but if it worked.... Hastily he slipped off his shoes, placed them on the floor beside him. Then, thrusting his hand into his coat pocket, he bulged the cloth out with his finger to simulate a gun.
"Don't move!" he said in sibilant Martian. "Drop your flame-gun! Try anything and I'll shoot!"
The guard sprang to his feet, his bulging hairless head gleaming in the bright light, his green eyes cold with rage. As Ranson had expected, he gave no indication of surrender. Instead, he raised his weapon, fired.
At the moment that the guard pressed the trigger, the terrestial leaped to one side, seeking cover of the wall at the side of the door. A savage greenish flash spat from the gun, a terrible wave of heat swept the cell. Half-blinded, sick from the searing heat, Ranson lay in his corner and watched the door. Under the fiery blast, the iron bars turned white, ran, until only pools of molten metal lay between him and freedom.