"You've said that every day since the weather machine was smashed," a voice cried out from the rear.
Hilary paused, thrown off his balance momentarily. Yet a second's hesitation would be fatal. It was Joan who answered for him. She sprang forward, lithe and exalted, her dark eyes flashing even in the dark.
"I'll tell you how he knows. I myself had almost forgotten. Tomorrow is exactly two weeks since the weather machine was destroyed. My father, Martin Robbins, built it. He told me then that its effects were so powerful that they lasted for two weeks, even with the machine turned off. Only positive action could bring an immediate reversal, of weather conditions. That's how he knows."
Joan had turned the tide. The waverers turned as one man to Hilary. "Lead on! We follow!"
"Very well," he stated quietly. "We can't remain here. The Mercutians will be back soon in overwhelming force, burning for revenge. We march."
To Joan, in barely audible tones: "Is that true, what you said?"
"I—I think so. I remember Dad mentioned a time limit. I think it was two weeks."
"If it isn't, we're facing a damned unpleasant prospect to-morrow," he said grimly.