Ross circled the cell, then shook his head. "We couldn't get out of this without a ray machine," he muttered.
Moore sat down against a wall. "Guess not. Say, Bruce, did you hear the old girl?"
"The Universe is to be rent asunder," grunted Ross. "Where does that leave us?"
"Behind the eight ball, as I believe they used to say back in the twentieth century," grinned Moore. "That is, that's where we would be if the Universe really were to be rent asunder."
"Oh!" grunted Ross in heavy sarcasm. "So it isn't going to happen?"
"Gosh, no," chuckled Moore. "It's the silliest kind of astrological fake, discredited two centuries ago. Where Horta picked it up I don't know. Probably he got some power from the blue stars by accident, and his faker astrologists strung him along on the big bust-up idea."
"Nice clean fun," muttered Ross. "Well, we missed. Horta's still got his ray machine. He's also got the princess—and the queen for an ally."
"He's also," amended Moore dryly, "got us."
"And how," grunted Ross. "How long do you suppose we'll last if we don't—"
He stopped abruptly. A faint noise came to his ears. "Hear that?" he asked, puzzled.