Staring, wild-eyed, they beheld the crouching figure of Herzog. Running, even as he cringed, he had upset a glass retort, which had shattered on the concrete floor. And as he ran, he screamed:
"They're in! They're coming! Quick—the steel vaults! Let me in, there! Let me in!"
The coward was now a maniac with terror, his face perfectly white, writhen with panic, and with staring eyes that gleamed horribly under the greenish vacuum-lights.
"Back, you! Get out!" roared Waldron, raising a fist. "We—"
A sudden belch of flame, outside, split the night with terrible virescence. The whole steel building trembled and swayed. Some of its girders buckled; and the east wall, nearest the oxygen-tanks, caved inward as a mass of many tons was hurled against it.
A stunning concussion flung all three men to the floor; and, as they fell, a withering heat-wave quivered through the place.
"The oxygen-tanks!" gasped Flint. "They're blown up—they're burning—God help us!"
Scorching, yet still eager to live, he crawled on hands and knees toward the steel door. Waldron dragged himself along, half-dead with terror. Now, dripping gouts of inextinguishable fire were raining on the roof of the building. A whirlwind of flame was sweeping all its eastern side; and a glare like that of Hell itself seared the eyes of the fugitives.
Quivering, trembling, slavering, the old man and Waldron wrenched the steel door open.
"Me! Me! Let me in! Me! Save me!" howled Herzog, dragging himself toward them.