Light fingers flicked out at me, whipped around my body, snapped me into the air and heaved me across the laboratory. I struck on the smooth floor and skidded across it to bring up with a crash against the wall.
I shook my head to clear it and struggled to my feet. We must fight the Creator! Must save our world from destruction by the very creature who had created it!
I came to my feet with my muscles bunched, crouched in a fighting posture.
But the Creator had not moved. He stood in the same position and a rod of purple light extended between him and the queer machine of the walking-stick man. The rod of light seemed to be holding him there, frozen, immovable. Beside the machine stood the walking-stick-man, his hand on the lever, a mad glare in his eyes.
Scott was slapping the gangling fellow on his slender back.
'You've got the goods, old man,' he was shouting. 'That's one trick old frozen face didn't learn from you.'
A thunderous tumult beat through my head. The machine of the walking-stick-man was not a transmission machine at all. It was a weapon — a weapon that could freeze the Creator into rigid lines.
Weird colors flowed through the Creator. Dead silences lay over the room. The machine of the walking-stick-man was silent, with no noise to hint of the great power it must have been developing. The purple rod did not waver. It was just a rigid rod of purple which had struck and stiffened the Creator.
I screamed at Scott: 'Quick! The universe! He is going to destroy it!'
Scott leaped forward. Together we raced toward the table where the mass of created matter lay in its receptacle. Behind us padded the elephant-men.