... The voices became inaudible—
Inspiration came to Hunter Frederix then. It was a futile, vain hope. It was a desperate gamble and Death held the odds; but an hour's delay might mean success. Andres would soon be conscious; the rockets would flash out of Botrodus.
A wild plan flashed across his brain, and then a pure thought which held in it understanding and acknowledgment—understanding of one man's weakness and acknowledgment of another's genius.
He looked down at the robot, saw the photocellular eyes turned upwards to his face. Despite the seriousness of it all, he smiled crookedly as he caught the automaton up in his arms and hurried across to a doorway marked plainly "Stage Door—No Loiterers!"
The door opened as he crossed the photo-electric eye on the threshold, and he came upon a hectic scene: a sweating, cigar-chewing manager upbraiding a group of voluptuous chorines.
"Listen, girls, please can't you think up a new routine? This fellow's a madman when he's drunk and he might take it in his cranium to tear the joint apart. How's about that Starshine Sequence?"
Frederix shouldered his way brusquely through the surprised throng, ignoring the angry remarks which came as his metal suit brushed bare arms and backs. No time for pardons now; seconds meant life or death—
"Hey, Mac!" he said by way of introduction. "Could you use an act?"
The irate manager surveyed the big, purposeful man inside the oxysuit, grinned and said:
"Listen, Goldilocks, whatcha think this is—a bearded man's convention?"