"It's all a nice, neat package," said Weston, "because don't forget I worked that French Morocco project, too, and I know how to sabotage that damned rocket! Then to make the whole story turn out real pretty with a happy ending, we have Mohammed here to pay off like he said, for getting him back home!"
The Prince still looked at Henry, his turban almost down over his eyes. "You have heard!" he cried out. "Tell me, Henry! Can it be done?"
"There's just one little technicality," said Henry. "How do you propose to capture that Cosmic drive rocket outside?"
Weston grinned again, and Dr. Edwards explained. "Our friends upstairs never suspected our existence. They probably assumed we got lost somewhere in the Chronotron. Having had no one to defend themselves against, they have produced no weapons of any description, with the exception of those they have installed on the rocket, for use when they get back to the twentieth century, if necessary, to force the issue concerning the D-C bomb. So they are quite vulnerable to a surprise attack. This gun should do the trick easily enough. It is fully loaded."
"What of their superior numbers?" asked Kimnar. But he read the answer before it was voiced.
"The poor devils were quite aware of the reaction sphere," Edwards answered. "There isn't much time left, you know. They chose their pilgrims, and the rest—"
Martia paled. "All dead!" she exclaimed.
Edwards shrugged. "Euthanasia. Tragic, perhaps, but very convenient. We only have six men to contend with."
"I don't want to appear too forward about all this," said Kimnar, slipping back into the sarcastic dialect of Scarface, "but we'd like to ride in that star buggy, ourselves. Maybe you can use another hand in your surprise attack?"
Henry and Martia looked at him quizzically, then their brows furrowed in deeper puzzlement as they read the weighty thing that was in his mind.