“Get going,” Lathrop told the Martian. “Buster isn’t here to help you.”
The Martian backed away. Lathrop sheered at him.
“Run, damn you, run! You’re good at that. You ran away from the things out on the stars. You ran away and hid.”
“It was the only thing to do,” the Martian’s thoughts were blubbery.
Lathrop whooped in sudden laughter. “You only think you hid. You’re like an ostrich sticking its head into the sand. You hid in three dimensions, yes, but you ran up a fourth-dimensional flag for all the Universe to see. Didn’t you realize, you fool, that the Evil Beings might have fourth-dimensional senses, that when you strung your fourth-dimensional selves all to hell and gone you were practically inviting them to come and get you?”
“It’s not true,” said the Martian smugly. “It couldn’t be true. We figured it all out. There is no chance for error. We are right.”
Lathrop spat in disgust. Disgust at something that was old and doddering and didn’t even know it.
The Martian sidled slowly away, then made a sudden dash, scooped up the Purple Jug, hugging it close against him.
“Stop him!” shrieked Elmer, and fear and terror rode up and down the shriek.
The Martian lunged for the open door of the spaceship, still hugging the jug. Lathrop hurled himself forward, flattening in a flying tackle. His hands fell short, scraped a leathery body, clawing fiercely, closed upon an elephantine leg. A tentacle spatted at his face, broke his grip upon the leg, sent him rolling on the floor.