Then, amazingly, came a burst of giggling laughter from one of their party. From the mirth-contorted lips of their Eurasian scientist companion, Dr. Boris Anjers.
"Yes," babbled Anjers triumphantly, "look long and well, little fools, while yet you may. For when that mist passes your puny efforts will end in flaming oblivion. That all too brief gray pall is—your shroud of death!"
CHAPTER XIII
The War Between the Worlds
Gary Lane's immediate reaction to these incredible words was a swift and regretful commiseration. The little man plainly did not know what he was saying. The rigors of the long and arduous trip had undermined his nerve. Now this final, most perilous adventure had completely disrupted his morale.
Lane said soothingly, "Easy, Doctor. It's not so bad as all that. It'll be all over in a few minutes. Here, sit down and rest—"
And he moved a few paces toward the rotund little savant. But Anjers, moving even more swiftly, evaded him. He darted back, a hand dipping into one capacious pocket of his jacket, and when that hand emerged it gripped the hilt of an ugly Haemholtz ray pistol. With this Anjers covered his stunned companions.
"Stand back, Lane! Another step and I'll—Aaah, that's better." There was no cherubic placidity on his features now. Nothing but pure, unadulterated malevolence. "No, my friends, I am not, as you think, unnerved or mad. I am in complete possession of my senses ... and have been all along. Too much so to permit that you outcasts of Gog shall ever achieve your purpose—"
"Boris!" cried Dr. Bryant. "Whatever is the matter? Calm down man, for God's sake!"
"Gog?" spluttered Flick Muldoon. "What's he mean, Gog?"