Appalled, the financier turned and fled.
While he ran, he turned his head and shrilled back, "You are making a mistake!" It was a futile thing to scream out, for the plastiskin ears were deaf to meaning, if not to noise.
Revanche's hand fumbled on the interferer's switch, and clicked it back and forth. It seemed to be working; it was warm and humming. What then was the matter?
He cursed Da Vincelleo for a strictly third-rate artisan—a bungler, botcher, and bonehead.
Suddenly he was running down another empty corridor, his hard soles bouncing echoes off the faraway walls. Slap! Slap! Puff! Wheeze! There was an open window at the distant end of the hall. If only he could make that...!
Again he stopped short. Half hidden in the shadows stood an X on guard. It turned its head, and tiger-bright eyes flamed.
Revanche choked off a scream, and whirled. He expected to see the other destroyer behind him, but it was not in sight. When he reached the junction of the two corridors, he saw it standing there, sword held out before it in satiric salute.
There was but one way for Revanche to go—straight back to the bank's vault.
For the first time he realized that he himself, B. T. Revanche, was being herded!
He spun around again to face the oncoming terrors. Frantically, his fingers flicked the switch.