A jangling din as the thing rushed after him. Hands shot out to clutch. Its shins struck the bench violently, the feet lost their grip of the floor, and the clumsy structure plunged forward and down, with a noise like an automobile striking a stone wall. For a moment the huge head was just at Gascon's knee.
He struck. The solder-fastened patch flew away under the impact of his clubbed lever-bar like a driven golf ball. The cranium yawned open, and he jabbed the bar in. Something squashed and yielded before his prodding—the delicate artificial brain. Then the struggling shape at his feet subsided. From one relaxing hand rolled something round—the head of Tom-Tom.
It still lived, for the eyes rolled up to glare at Gascon, the jaws snapped at his toe. He kicked the thing back through the door, into the growing flames. The fire was bright enough to show him the way back along the corridor. He did not know how Tom-Tom had arranged the panel to open and close, nor did he pause to find out. Heavy blows of the bar cleared him a way.
Out in the office, he fairly sprang to the desk, located the button on its top, and pressed it. A moment later, Shannon was staring out at him through her grating.
"Ben!" she gasped. "Are you all right? Tom-Tom—"
"He's finished," Gascon told her. "This whole business is finished." With his lever he managed to rip the grating from its fastenings, and then dragged Shannon forth. She clung to him like a child awakened from a nightmare.
"Come, we're getting out."
In the second corridor he stooped, searched the pockets of the senseless triangle-faced one and secured the keys to the car outside. Then he shook the fellow back to semi-consciousness.
"This house is on fire!" Gascon shouted. "Get your pal upstairs on his feet, and get out of here."
Leaving the fellow standing weakly, Gascon and Shannon got into the open and into the car. Driving along the street, they heard the clang of fire-engines, heading for the now angry fire.