When he heard that voice, Ramey Winters had been on the verge of firing into the pale heart of mist that engulfed him. Now suddenly his fingers were nerveless, the automatic tumbled unheeded from his hand, and his voice cracked with a cry of almost hysterical laughter.
"Red! Red, it's me—Ramey! And Sheng-ti."
Now wood scraped wood, another boat loomed dark beside them, and Red Barrett's hard, familiar features stared across at Ramey. The redhead's eyes were wide with gladness; with joyous abandon he brandished his own pistol in delighted circles.
"Ramey, you old son-of-a-gun! Am I ever glad to see you! We'd just about given you up for—"
He stopped, hesitant, apologetic. Ramey grinned.
"Dead? Nothing like it, guy. I take a lot of killing. But I wouldn't like to check out on the friendly accident list. You'd better put that pea-shooter away before you hurt somebody."
Barrett said, "Hold the boat, chum, I'm coming over." To a dim figure in his own craft, "Take this crate home again, James. I won't be needing it no more tonight."
"Who was that with you?" asked Ramey curiously when his friend had safely trans-shipped. "One of the O'Briens?"
"Syd and Lake? No, they're in a huddle with Sugriva and Doc Aiken and Kohrisan. My chauffeur was one of them ape-soldiers. You know what, Ramey? We had them all wrong. You get to know those hairy little guys and they're okay."
"I've been meeting some people like that," Ramey nodded, "myself. How strong a force have you gathered?"