Peterson smiled paternally. "Right; who wouldn't? And once I get control, see how many more will join up. Beats working for Atomic, doesn't it?"
Bonwitt nodded dully. Fantastic as the thing was, the engineer recognized the danger to Crane and himself. The world could take care of itself. But the Selenites? Here were Gates and Peterson both plotting their destruction. For all Bonwitt knew, Gates might be planning the same thing against Peterson. If either won out it would be bad for a certain engineer and an ethertype man. Maybe—
"I'd like to see your ethertype myself," he told Peterson. "It's the one you used to communicate with Peel from the workings, isn't it?"
"Huh? How'd you know that?" The super tensed suspiciously, then relaxed. "Oh, Crane guessed, I suppose. Sure, you can see it. Follow me."
When they reached the ethertype room, it was to see Gates, wild of eye and disheveled of clothing, standing over Crane with one of the odd pistols in his hand. Crane's head was missing—blasted away. With a screech of pure animal fury, Bonwitt dived at the killer. Off guard, the big ethertype man went down and his pistol clattered into a corner. But he was up in a flash and the engineer was in for a battle.
He ducked too late and took a right to his temple that set him spinning and seeing stars. A left cross spun him back and, by enraging him, cleared his head. He clinched to get breath, then flung the big radio man off and drove him against the table. Gates staggered and hung on under a rain of body blows, rallied to come back with a left and a right that both jolted Bonwitt's jaw. Then he was tearing at the engineer's eyes with clawed fingers, bearing him to the floor.
So it was to be that kind of fighting! Bonwitt heaved up and got a full Nelson on his wriggling foe that nearly snapped his spine. He downed Gates, panting, cursing between his teeth. He could see Crane's poor headless body sprawled there. The sight robbed him of all knowledge of what he was doing and he did not return to normal until the voice of Peterson halted him. Only then did he realize that he had been banging Gates's head against the metal floor with all the force of a pounding sledge.
"He's dead," gloated Peterson. "Save your strength."
Bonwitt saw that it was true. His antagonist's skull was a thing squashed, unrecognizable. Sick at the stomach, he reeled to his feet.
Peterson stood regarding him with a cryptic smile, a pistol in either hand, his own and Gates's. "Good work," he approved. "Saved me trouble. But we'll have to get rid of the bodies. Have to tell Peel I've sent the two to the workings temporarily."