"You're not funny," said her husband. "Do you realize that we've been in this hole for a week? Do you realize that Art Wilder and everyone on Jupiter and Earth will think we're dead?" He paused. "Not that we won't be."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean if they stick us in one of those ships of theirs to go explore that mad-aura continent and find out what's behind all the mystery, we'd be better off dead than crazy."
Myra laughed. "What an ego you must have, my husband. It won't permit you to think that it's possible these peach-people have bigger and better brainwaves than we."
A bell sounded and a blue light went on and off above the door.
"Open it yourself," shouted Steve irritably. "I don't know how."
The door opened. Peachy entered.
Accompanying him was a strictly utilitarian piece of robot machinery. Headless, it consisted of a long steel body terminating in a balled foot at one end and two triple-jointed arms at the other. At the end of each arm was a murderous looking spiked ball, both of which swung idly and menacingly at the thing's sides.
Peachy beckoned to them. When they hesitated, the robot clanged its spiked fists together with an unpleasant ringing sound, then raised them menacingly in the air.
Steve and Myra blanched, and meekly followed Peachy through the door. They walked outside, followed Peachy to a space-ship and entered.