Within arm's reach were a half-dozen riderless mounts of those who had died in battle. To the back of one of these Larry leaped. His nearest companion was an olive-skinned son of antique Persia. He glanced wonderingly at the white-complexioned six-footer beside him, but only for an instant. In this strange meeting place of the ages, existed no lingual difficulties. Larry wore the menaudo, and that headgear spoke in the one universal tongue, the language of thought.
Now, succinctly, he broadcast the meaning of this threat to the allies out of time.
"Only the Dome above protects us all from dreadful death. The greatest rogue of all has escaped, and has taken refuge in the chamber that controls that dome. If he pulls the main lever, he can bring it and the world crashing into ruin about us—"
As he thought, he rode, and as he rode a wide path opened before him. Others turned their mounts to follow, and the corridors of the domed city rang with the hoofbeats of a host salvation-bent. There was but one chance—to reach the turret and destroy Harg before he could pull that lever.
Larry was aware that behind him, beside him now, was Sandra. Her thoughts, incoherent, pleading, woman-like, reached him.
"No, Larry! Don't try to storm the turret. We'll take our chances with the Time machine. Try to go back to our own time through it—"
"And leave a dead world behind us?" That was his answer. It was enough.
Harg's vainglorious farewell broadcast still went on.
"—Such a little time to live! Breathe deeply of the air, O invaders from another time. Taste its sweetness with longing, for all too soon the Dome will fall, letting in the blasting radiation of the dying universe. Then you, too, with it, will perish—"
Then suddenly his voice altered subtlely.