"She work?" asked Damokles.
"She will if static doesn't cut me out too much."
"Dam' good," grunted the Greek. "Now we show them dam-blast Neptuners what good Old Greek History are."
"Correct, chum. When will the bomb be ready?"
"She are ready now."
"Swell! I might as well blast her off."
"No!" Johnny Damokles' tone was urgent, pleading. "You wait ... do him tomorrow when Neptune fellers can see."
Morning dawned with its usual dim lessening of the Neptunian murk. A methane breeze rolled down from some distant mountain range and swirled in noxious vapors across the plain. Two Neptunian guardsmen saw a flicker of movement in a nearby sandheap and cut loose with the fullest fury of their heat-grids. There was a crackle. An unassimilated tribesman rolled over, kicked a spurred foot in the air, arched his haunches and died.
The little tragedy, repeated time and again on that ruthless planet, was no more than window-dressing for more significant events. The crackling, burning grids were crackling arcs of doom. Like Gabriel's trumpet, they served to awaken Tim and Johnny Damokles.
"What's dam' noise?" grunted the Greek.