"Jonas Scatterday and Len Cutt," came a slow, deep whisper from the black screen. "This is the voice of the Mystic X. Bronsco will not tolerate bug-lovers. We are, however, giving you one chance; get out now and take your bugs with you, and you won't be harmed."
Len joggled the lever futilely. "Blacked out their end," he surmised. "Halloween stunts. I got a mind to put The Ghoul Laughs in the projector and play it back at them."
But he didn't look quite as amused as he sounded.
The button went black, and Len stood there, remembering things. "It was Mystic X who blew up the Martian Clinic the Free Martian started in Scarnston."
"Right," said Scat. "Let's get some sleep."
Toward morning he awoke with a start. He groped out and found the switch, but the lights didn't come on; the darkness was absolute. While he slept, the glastic had somehow been rendered opaque.
As he lay there, he heard the unmistakable click of pinchers from the transmission room and the faint moan of the beam. He realized then what must have happened. Lighting power was local—in conformity with some Bronsco ordinance. So they'd been able to cut it off. But beam power was regional—and they weren't tampering with that yet. Click-Click had taken in the situation and had decided not to wake him or Len while he and his pals got out the morning edition. Human beings couldn't operate very effectively until the lighting system had been jury-rigged on beam power.
The busy clicking continued. Scat smiled. Martian perception was independent of light; Click-Click must be getting a kick out of this.
Still, he'd better get up. He'd dreamed some improvements in the editorial. Probably gone out already, but they could always back-tape and dub in the changes.