For a huge black sphere materialized about fifty meters to his left and rolled swiftly toward him. Jon beat a hasty retreat. He backed toward the ship, and jogged the camera under his chin to start it operating. The sphere paused a second, then rolled slowly after him.
"Steady," came Doc's voice in the phones. "I got a dis-ray on it."
Jon felt better, though he knew that a dis-ray blast this close to him would fricassee him too. He told Doc so.
"What's the difference?" inquired Doc, the first note of their doom in his voice. "Fast or slow—take your choice."
"Take your pictures, ground-hog," grunted Jon. "I'll do the heavy thinking around here."
"Don't sprain your neck with it, Fly-boy."
It was that dull black hopelessness in the back of Jon's mind that gave him the bravado that he showed then. He took a quick step toward the sphere.
"Scat," he snarled savagely, and waved his arms. "Shoo! Get lost!"
Then his mouth gaped. It was gone! Vanished!
"Doc!" he yelled, "did you see that?"