“Stand back!” Scott lifted a small missile. Garry knew the tear-gas and its effect. He hesitated.
“Shame!” he cried. “You can’t escape. Even if you did fool us by taking us to look for your own self, at the start, you can’t fool us any longer.” He was talking against time, getting his feet set.
“Come and turn that prop, or I’ll—throw this!”
Garry changed his tactics; meaning to leap, ducking the missile, he altered his plan. “All right!” he agreed, docile with pretended fear.
He moved toward the propeller, stepping on the edges of the boards.
He saw the electric crash launch floating just beyond the nose of the ship. Menaced with the tear-gas, he nevertheless made his leap, across the water, from the planks, that gave under him, to catch the coaming of the boat’s cockpit. The missile flew through the air after him, but Garry, in the channel, went down, until his feet touched mud; holding his breath he swam under the launch, coming up on the other side. He trod water, concealed.
To his dismay he heard the man, discarding his disguise, twist angrily at the propeller of the repaired airplane. It caught on a firing point of the engine, swung rapidly. The man rushed along the planks.
Drowned by the noise close at hand, Garry failed to hear the Dart rev up its engine, turning to get into the wind.
In it was Chick and at its controls was Don. Garry disregarded all danger, clambered into the boat, tumbling in close to the wheel and switch. He tore at the latter, sending current into the motor. With a howl of rage Scott drove his airplane off the makeshift runway and straight at the launch. He hurled a missile. It did not strike the boat.
Garry backed water, up the channel. The airplane had to take the air or foul its wings in grass. It rose. A bomb dropped—Garry, full speed astern, avoided it and backed up the channel. He could not turn.