"I ... I don't believe it," Marc repeated doggedly. "You're lying."
"I've told you that you don't have to believe it," the doctor went on triumphantly. "However, one fact remains; if I do not receive, by radio, assurances from the governments of the world, beginning within the next twenty-four hours, that they will hold all resources and manpower at my disposal, pending my wishes, I shall not hesitate to press the button. And please believe me, I have enough charged material ready that it won't leave even so much as a memory."
"Twenty-four hours!" Marc gasped.
"Mr. Pillsworth!" the doctor exclaimed. "I know your resources! And I've waited a long time for this! The fate of the world rests in your hands!"
"Yes," Toffee put in derisively. "The doctor has a right to a little fun after working so hard for so long. Don't be a kill-joy, Marc."
"But I'll be arrested for murder, the minute I show myself," Marc protested. "And who'd believe any of this, anyway? What about that?"
"Those," the doctor said wearily, spreading his long hands before him, "are your problems. I'm sure you'll find a solution to them."
Toffee rose gracefully from her chair and swung easily toward the desk. "You make it all sound so easy, doctor," she said acidly. And so startling was her movement, so distracting her lovely body in motion, that neither Marc nor the doctor noticed that, in turning, she had scooped the gun from the corner of the desk, where the doctor had dropped it. But now that they did notice, another fact was also blaringly apparent. She was pointing the gun in the wrong direction. Grasped by the muzzle, it was aimed directly at her own smooth midriff.
"Hands up!" she announced dramatically.
"Turn it around!" Marc yelled. "You're sticking yourself up!"