"Sock 'im! Smack 'im down!" he heard Baron Munchy shouting at the top of his tiny voice. "Plaster 'er another! Lead with right, dadblamee!"
Fearing the worst, Lonny tried to hurry, with the result that he became tangled in his mud-shoes and had to flounder the rest of the way. On the landing he shook off as much of the mud as was possible, kicked off his mud-shoes and staggered toward the shaft of light boring up from the hatchway.
In the center of the control room Baron Munchy was stalking back and forth, yelling like a referee. Link Raeburn's angular body was sprawled back disgustedly on a low bench, while Lana Hilton was flopped down in a chair at a table, her dejected face propped up by both hands.
"Whyn't you wallop in kisser?" demanded Baron Munchy, hopping up to the table beside her and trying to lift an arm. "Smash him over place, Lana!"
"Damn that mosquito!" snapped Link Raeburn wearily. "Can't you swat him? Why doesn't that fool Lonny keep him home where he belongs?"
"What's the big idea?" demanded Lonny, looking from one to the other and clawing miserably at his mud coating. He gazed accusingly at the girl in tattered metalline slacks and faded blouse of vitrisheen.
"So you finally got here," she commented casually. "I thought that would bring you. He's chivalrous, isn't he, Link?"
"Look here, Raeburn," snorted Lonny, doubling a grimy fist and turning to the flint-featured man. "Are you trying to play some sort of a game?"
"Ask Lana," said Raeburn, puffing at a smoking stem of mud-kelp. "She was the one that screamed."
"Maybe it's me that's nuts!" exploded Lonny indignantly.