"There isn't a rocket-tube down there I'd trust now," said Pritchard. "They're all bunged out of alignment. Some of the snappers might still be in shape to use...." His voice trailed off. Something was taking shape in his thoughts, something revolving about a word Cornelia had uttered—the word "jump."
"Well, what can we do?" muttered Sturgis tensely. The worm was still well below, but coming steadily up. They could see the little scarlet tips now, questing over the jagged edges. Behind was all humping redness.
"We were very foolish—" Pritchard checked himself. "I was very foolish. I permitted us to be outmaneuvered. The one thing that monster doesn't want is for one of us to get back to the cruisers—"
"I've been thinking," Sturgis cut in. "Why don't we empty all our flamer tanks along the ridge here, climb all the way to the top and then, as soon as it's almost there, spark the fuel and give it a good roasting?"
Pritchard shook his head. "I thought of that. You forget how volatile that stuff is. By the time it gets there—no, I've got a better use for the flamers."
He began unstrapping the tank from his shoulders. "Kemp, pass yours on down. No, hang on to it, just in case. Sturgis, you take my position and hold It off as long as you can—" He glanced at the gauge on the light plastic tank and shook his head grimly. "Okay, children, let's get going—to the top."
The mountain wasn't really much of a mountain, being only some five hundred feet high. Their first frantic scramble up the ridge had carried them almost two-thirds of the way.
Behind them, the worm was flowing steadily upward, like a river of blood, along the narrow ridge.
"Kemp," panted Pritchard as the short young man finally and painfully inched over the knife-edged peak.
Kemp turned, stretching out a hand to Cornelia to help her up and over. "Yes?"