The world was going around in a whirl now, but Lonny kept staggering onward. Link Raeburn had disappeared. The mud-submarine kept dancing tauntingly before his eyes and then disappearing. If it sank before he reached it the work of long endless months would slip from his grasp. And with it would go his life. Back on earth, they would never know and Raeburn would live a life of affluence and ease.
"We've got to make it, Lana," he gritted, though every breath was a torment that sent hot flames of pain shooting through every cell. She turned a game, tortured face to his and nodded vehemently.
A whole school of whirl-rays came rippling toward them, crisscrossing the mud with gleaming trails, and Lonny found his Z-ray weapon—sent the purplish beams of annihilation down into the centers of quivering, living whirlpools. Once he went around and around in narrowing circles toward the opened maw of a whirl-ray, only to see the lower shape dematerialize before the deadly emanation.
They were at the very edge of the submarine, were clambering across the muddy landing, using their last reserve of strength. Link Raeburn was working at the catches of the hatch cover, and had just succeeded in undoing the fastenings. Now he gave a tremendous heave and the thing fell like a trapdoor.
Hurled on by his wrath, Lonny made a dive for the traitorous visage, but as he dove his foot slipped and he skidded sidewise. His head came down upon a railing brace with a sickening impact and the gun went spinning. Through the darkening chaos of his mind he felt the submarine starting to submerge.
The mud was creeping up toward his body, was sucking at Lana's ankles, crawling in a tiny avalanche toward the dome of the hatch cover—now closed. They were beaten—whipped—done for. Now Raeburn could go back to earth—concocting some wild tale as to their death. He would be laughing at them and enjoying every luxury.
Lana was either dead game or so angry at Link's betrayal that she refused to give up. Though her face was distorted terribly from heavy pressure and agony, she pressed onward—was crumbling at last to her knees—and pointing wildly.
Lonny saw what she meant. He could have shouted for joy but breath would not come from his compressed lungs. The gun had fallen upon the lip of the hatch cowling and now the cover was jammed. Through a narrow slit he saw Raeburn's eyes—narrowed and beastial—and his hands, working like mad to free the mechanism.
If he went down that way—it meant death for him too. Under heavy pressure the mud would send terrible pseudopods grasping through the slit. Lonny could have laughed. But there was no time for gloating. He saw the hatch door come up again, and then his foot had settled over the gun and he was helping Lana down the stairway.