"We'll get word through somehow." Grant squared his shoulders. "Maybe Harris and Miller...."
As Grant spoke, a furious tocsin of blows sounded upon the main airlock. The spacemen whirled, groping for guns. Face set, Grant stepped toward the inner door of the lock.
"Keep me covered," he snapped, drawing the massive pneumatic bolts.
As the heavy steel door swung open, Joan gave a sudden gasp. Standing in the air-chamber was a stocky, space-suited figure, face paper-white. Harris, looking as though he were pursued by a legion of devils!
"Good Lord!" Grant exclaimed. "What's wrong? Where's Miller?"
Harris pushed back his helmet, slumped onto a bench; drops of sweat beaded his face, his eyes were tortured.
"It ... it's screwy!" he muttered. "It ain't human! Miller standing there, jumping up and down."
Grant took a bottle of fiery Martian long from the table, poured out a tumblerful.
"Drink this," he said. "And tell us what happened."
Harris downed the drink with a shudder.