he logical thing to do, yes—but how? With only one arm, the simple task of binding the Venerian presented considerable difficulty. How much more difficult would it be to force anything from him?
Then the solution of the first problem presented itself to Parkinson. What was to prevent his strapping this being into the high-backed chair to which he had been secured some time before? Quickly he crossed the circular room to the door he had first passed through while searching for a weapon.
Ten minutes later, when the Venerian regained his senses, he was fastened securely to the tall, metal chair.
"Well," Parkinson addressed him, "conditions seem to be reversed now, and you're the underdog. I've nipped your invasion in the bud. All your elaborate preparations are wasted."
Something resembling a sneer wreathed the Venerian's thin lips; a mocking gleam lit his cold, blue eyes.
"So our efforts have been wasted, have they? I'm afraid I can't agree with you. Already, enough bacteria have been released to destroy all life, though it will take longer than we desire. Even though you kill me, our goal will still be reached. The human race will die!"
A cloud of gloom fell upon Parkinson. He had expected this; but he had been hoping that he was wrong.
"Then there's only one thing for me to do, and that is: I'll have to force you to tell me how to undo the damage you've done."
The Venerian smiled mirthlessly. "You have absolutely no chance of accomplishing that," he said. "We've done our work too well to allow any interference now.