He caught the auxiliary switch on his way past, and the space lock whirred shut. "Executive to pilot," he yelled. "Take her up at six."
The floor surged, throwing Williamson to his knees. Defiantly, Ben crawled to the executive's chair and rolled into the padded, body-supporting seat. He lay there for some seconds, breathing heavily. Then from the communicator there came the query:
"Pilot to executive: Received. What's doing?"
"Executive to crew: Martian of the Mardinex class snatched Guy Maynard on a tractor. We're to pursue and destroy."
"Golly!" breathed the pilot. "Maynard!"
"That's right," said Williamson. "They grabbed him right in front of the BuEx and that's that."
"But to destroy them—?"
"We're running under TSI orders, you know," reminded Williamson.
"Yeah, I know. But killing off one of our own people doesn't sound good to me. Makes me feel like a murderer."
"I know," said Ben. "But remember, Maynard was grabbed by a Martian. Being an aide to Greggor, he was filled to the eyebrows with anti-lamine. That means the electro-treatment for him, plus a good shot of iso-dinilamine. All we're doing is giving peace to a man who is suffering the tortures of hell. After all, would any of you care to go on living after that combination was finished?"