Pressure began to build up in him. He was a trained rocket pilot, a man with skilled reflexes and an essential job. Somehow he'd slipped—and it had landed him smack under Blayne's thumb. It wasn't an easy pill to swallow. He would cheerfully have killed the fat man—except that he knew he'd never fly a spaceship again if he returned to Venus City without the Commissioner. Blayne had him tied up six ways from Sunday, and it would do no good to strain at the bonds.
On the evening of the fourth day, disaster struck. The jeep was bouncing over the mossy path between the great slime-covered trees when, quite suddenly, Elliot spied something rope-like slithering down a vine directly in the path of the car.
"Snake!" he yelled, and jerked the wheel to one side. The jeep swerved.
"Watch what you're doing!" Blayne growled. But it was too late. The right wheel hit a hidden rock, and the vehicle turned over on its side with a rending crash.
Elliot was dazed, but he knew he still had to act fast. He sprang from the overturned jeep, with Blayne behind him. The tree-snake that had caused him to swerve was still coming toward them, its white fangs dripping venom.
It sprang forward to strike, but Elliot's hand was faster. He closed his fingers savagely around the reptile's neck. He held the head at arm's length.
The snake's twelve-foot body whipped around Elliot's throat and chest, pinning one arm to his side. The rocket pilot felt the dry, loathsome odor of the reptile drifting into his nostrils, and retched. He gasped for air and tightened his fingers on the snake's throat, drawing his hand together as closely as he could. It was a question of which one would hold out longer.
Elliot's eyes began to dim. What the hell was that fat fool Blayne doing?
"Blayne!" he shouted.