Then they heard a voice. A whisper, almost. It came to their ears directly as sound, penetrating easily the insulating texture of their oxygen helmets:
"Give back a world.... Me...."
It was a man's gloating mutter to himself. A vain man's promise to his ego, which the frustrations and competition of life had made swollen, like a cancer.
Then they saw his blurred shadow on the wall. Thin, hunched over, working at something. Fane all right. He had arrived here ahead of them, by rocket vehicle. No chance could be taken, questioning him. That could be done when and if he was overpowered.
Rick Mills raced around the column and leaped. But the scrape of his space-boots was a small warning. Fane was almost able to meet him with the muzzle of a blaster. But Rick, hurtling into him with his shoulder, grabbed his wrist, and the weapon skittered across the floor. Yet though his face-window was open, Fane wore a space armor, too. It protected him from the onslaught. Besides, he was not near exhaustion. And his thin muscles were like wire cables. Moreover, he fought as if for all he had ever hoped for. Some terrific prize. He was like a silent maniac.
Even so, Rick almost pinned him down. Lattimer recovered the blaster. Finden was leaping. But Fane touched controls on a square box at his belt. A strange old box.
In obvious response, an Xian colossus of metal dashed forward from a far corner, its gleaming thumbs poised. Rick, dodging to one side, was forced to loosen his hold a little. Fane tore free.