The squat Martian snapped off the ray, approached the glowing door cautiously, to find out if there was life in Ranson's inert body. There was ... more than the little reddy had bargained for. The earthman's arm swung in an arc and one of his shoes, flying through the blasted, melted door, caught the little Martian's wrist, knocked the flame-gun from his hand. The other shoe, following swiftly, landed alongside his head, sent him reeling and staggering back into a shelf of test-tubes and beakers.
"And that's how we do it on Earth!" Grinning tightly, Ranson leaped the puddles of molten metal, plunged through the blasted, glowing remains of the door. Before the ugly little guard could recover, a hard knotted terrestial fist had slammed against his chin, sent him, limp and unconscious to the floor.
Before the ugly little guard could recover, a hard terrestial fist had slammed against his chin.
Swiftly Ranson ripped wires from the masses of intricate machinery, bound the inert reddy, then, snatching up the flame-gun, ran from the house.
Twisting, turning, he came to the embankment of the Psidian canal. A sleek water-cab slid into view, its atomic motors humming. Ranson hailed it, hand on his gun, but the wizened reddy at the wheel had apparently not heard of Elath Taen's mad melody.
"Martian Broadcasting Building," Ranson grated. "Step on it!"
The driver nodded, and, when his passenger was aboard, sent the boat surging along the canal, throwing up clouds of spray. Racing, roaring, dodging heavily-laden freight boats, the cab tore over the dark cold water that flowed, via the intricate networks of canals, from the polar caps.