"I thought there might be," Brown said with satisfaction. "Mr. Smith, help Mr. Dolan up to the machine."
Dolan reached out unsteadily, leaning on Smith, and reversed two connections. "That's it," he mumbled.
"Thank you, Mr. Dolan. Now, Mr. Smith, if you will just carry Mr. Dolan over there into the corner, well away from the machine, and immobilize him—no, no, just temporarily. We may still need him again, Mr. Dolan is a very tricky sort of person."
Dolan felt Smith's fingers touch his neck lightly, there was a sudden blazing pain, and that was all. He blanked out.
The first thing he knew after that was that fingers were working gently at his neck, massaging it. His head was resting on something soft. He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying with his head pillowed on Moirta's lap.
"George?" she said sharply. "Are you all right, George?"
"I'm all right," he said. He raised his head and looked around. The machine was gone, and Smith and Brown were gone, and half the boxes were gone. The end ones in the little semicircle were broken, and from them a pile of brass cartridges had spilled through the hole in the floor where the others had been.
"Wise jerks," he mumbled with grim satisfaction. "See how they like it now."
Moirta stared at him. "What happened, George? I don't understand what happened."