"You devil!" Morones shouted. "You may murder me, but they'll get you! They'll get you!"
"Who'll get me?" the Plutonian purred silkily, deferring the pleasure of the kill for another moment. Morones was having trouble with his breathing. His red face lolled from side to side, his eyes rolled in agony. Suddenly he saw Olear. Unbelieving, he relaxed.
"I'm seein' things!" he breathed.
"Who'll get me?" persisted the Plutonian, applying a little more pressure.
"The I. F. P.!" Morones gasped.
"Well, you little son-of-a-gun!" Olear thought, and then he jumped.
He landed a-straddle the neck of the Plutonian, which was almost like forking a horse. One brawny arm seized a horn. The other, with a lightning-swift dart, brought the point of the long service-knife to the pulsing black throat.
"Put him down!" Olear spoke into the great pointed ear. "Easy!"
Back on his feet, Morones began bellowing at the Mercurians. Utterly demoralized, they fled pell-mell. Morones came back. He said:
"Nothing to tie him up with."