Stern broke the gun and jacked in two more shells.
Again he fired.
“Good Heaven! How many of 'em are there in the trees?” shouted he.
“Try the Pulverite!” cried Beatrice. “Maybe you might hit a branch!”
Stern flung down the gun. To the corner where the vials were standing he ran.
Up he caught one--he dared not take two lest they should by some accident strike together.
“Here--here, now, take this!” he bellowed.
And from the window, aiming at a pine that stood seventy-five feet away--a pine whose branches seemed to hang thick with the Horde's blowgun-men--he slung it with all the strength of his uninjured arm.
Into the gloom it vanished, the little meteorite of latent death, of potential horror and destruction.
“If it hits 'em, they'll think we are gods, after all, what?” cried the engineer, peering eagerly. But for a moment, nothing happened.