Grant, encased in the heavy space-suit, was clumsy, awkward. Allers circled him like a tiger stalking its prey. Darting in, his fist would crash into his opponent's face before Grant could raise his heavy arms to guard. And by the time he was ready for a return blow, Allers was dancing out of reach, a grinning, ugly phantom.
Doggedly, Grant pursued his elusive antagonist. His face was a battered pulp from Allers' blows and the space-suit, the gravity shoes seemed to weigh tons. Except for that first blow he had not reached his opponent once, and Allers was laughing mockingly as he methodically cut Grant's face to ribbons. The latter was beginning to stumble now, had to force his limbs to move. If only he could corner Allers! Smash his fist into that evil, taunting countenance.
Knotted knuckles crashed flush against Grant's jaw, before he could raise his clumsy arm to block the blow. Backward he tottered against the wall, groggy, and through half-closed eyes saw Allers spring forward for the kill. But as Allers leaped toward him, another figure ran across the cabin, seized his arm. Joan! Clinging with all her weight to the space-rat, holding him back.
"Now, Ken!" she cried. "Now!"
With a single motion of his squat, powerful frame Allers shook the girl off, spun her across the cabin against the iron bulkhead, but in that moment Grant had reached him. His lead-encased hands shot out, gripped Allers' throat. The cold of the leaden gloves burned the man's neck like a brand and he screamed in agony. Tighter and tighter Grant's hands locked about his throat, heedless of the blows Allers rained upon him, and the agonized scream turned into a gurgling moan.
"Think of Kennerly!" Grant growled. "Dying out there in the cold! Think of him, you rat!"
Then a million stars danced before Grant's eyes, and he slumped back, half-conscious. Through wavering mists he saw Allers stagger to his feet, gripping a heavy wrench. The space-rat's groping hands had encountered it, brought the weapon down upon his opponent's head with brutal force. It was all like a dream, now, to Grant. Stunned, helpless, he saw Allers moving toward him, face set in a furious grin, the heavy wrench raised for a final terrible blow.
Instinctively Grant twisted sideways, his fingers fumbled with the emergency outlet of his space-suit's oxygen tank. On his shoulders it had escaped the heat-ray's blast and Grant knew it was still full of semi-liquid oxygen, under heavy pressure.
Allers' muscles were tensing, the heavy wrench was about to descend in a crushing, deadly stroke. It took all of Grant's failing strength to twist the outlet of the air valve.