Hammond waited. The thought came to him, now, that these were very modern Amazons. For beside the shield they carried a weapon that closely resembled a modern rifle. And on their shoulders each carried an identical parachute-like contrivance similar to the one fastened on Hammond.
The young chemist took a deep breath. He said: "What's the idea, girls? This some kind of a new game?"
The sound of his voice seemed to startle them. A golden haired warrior, perhaps a minor officer, for she wore a green armlet, made a short, quick gesture.
The ringing warriors closed in on Hammond. Instinct moved the young chemist's arms—the instinct to fight, to win free of this strange experience he could not understand. But crippling that instinct were the habits of civilization.
He couldn't bring himself to hit these girls, warriors or no.
Yet he tried to win free. He pushed the first two off their feet, whirled, and bucked the rest of the line with his shoulders. They parted under his assault. But with disciplined movement the others closed in and fairly smothered him under them.
He felt metal clasped about his arms and legs, and suddenly he was unable to struggle, to heave free of that pinning mass. Panting, his face grim, he subsided.
The Amazons reformed ranks. He was left with arms and legs chained in a manner that allowed him, when on his feet, to take short steps forward.
The officer with the green armband gestured again, and gave with it a verbal order. Her voice was musical, in a tongue entirely alien to Hammond.