"You spawn of hell!" he cried.
Pember lowered his gun. The sphere pulsed ominously. Then the doughboy charged.
Beneath the brim of his helmet Pember's jaws were set. His half-closed eyes, glazed by the dazzling light from the sphere, were two slits of savage determination.
There was something glorious in that charge. It was a soldier going into battle against hopeless odds. And it was more. The army of human civilisation at that moment consisted of one buck private, pitting everything he had against something that even science could not analyze.
The sudden attack seemed to surprise the sphere. It bounded back, moving swiftly out of the way of the advancing one-man army.
Pember roared. There were no words in what he shouted. It was just a cry, the battle cry of humanity.
"Heave!" chorused Taylor and Masters.
They too had a battle cry. Every man was doing his best and would die doing it, if necessary.
There was a crack and a hiss. A flicker of flame flashed over the charging soldier. An odor of charred human flesh filled the room.
Then came a new sound, the hissing splash of spilled metal.