But, as often as he drove them before him, Grey's cold, hard face appeared in the visa-radio. His commands reformed the others, brought them back to the attack.
Finally, as Barry fought off another encirclement, the space cruiser of Craig Grey dropped unseen from above. Four red rays reached toward the investigator's ship, closed about it like the fingers of a hand.
Barry had no chance to turn and make the prolonged ray contact it would have taken to damage the big, heavily-armored ship. His control board indicators flashed a bitter message in his eyes—his ship was lost! In the visa-plate before him; was Grey's exulting face, the long cigarette holder clamped between the thin, smiling lips. Above, like good dogs closing for the kill, the ships were following Barry down behind the pack-leading cruiser.
III
Williams got his wrecked craft on an even keel somehow, and spun her with his side jets to keep her even. His trip down was an incredibly swift repetition of these movements, designed to land the ship on the red sands with a cushioning belly-smack.
They were following him down to make sure he did not escape the crash alive—to ray the smashed ship into an incandescent heap of metal! At the last moment, Barry stretched out a leg, and kicked hard at the emergency door-lock lever release.
Whipped open by the air-wash, the door was waiting as he leaped from the seat. With a last look at the viewscreen—showing the red terrain flashing into his face—he spun out into the air a second before the crash. Darkness swept over him as he landed!
