The Swamja lay still, his spine snapped.
Vanning staggered up, hearing a roaring in his ears. It wasn’t imagination. Across the square, monstrous figures came racing, shouting harshly—Swamja, dozens of them!
"Vanning!" Hobbs’ voice croaked.
On the ground, three figures were wrestling in a contorted mass—Zeeth and Hobbs and the remaining Swamja. The monster was conquering. His bulging eyes glared with mad fury. Great muscles stood out on his gnarled arms as he tore at his opponents.
With a choking curse Vanning snatched up the gun his late enemy had dropped and sprang forward. His aim was good. The Swamja’s eyes went dull as the destroying charge short-circuited his nerves.
The racing Swamja were dangerously close as Vanning bent, tearing at the monster’s mighty hands. Useless!
He pressed his gun-muzzle into the Swamja’s arm-pit and fired and fired again. Presently one arm writhed free. Vanning seized the two men, literally tore them from the creature’s grip.
"The port!" Vanning gasped. "Get into—the ship!"
Hobbs lifted Zeeth and staggered around the bow. As Vanning turned to follow, he saw the slim body of Lysla lying motionless on the ground, in the path of the racing Swamja.
He sprinted forward, scooped up the girl in one motion, and swerved back, running as though all hell were at his heels. A croaking yell went up. Sickening pain lanced through Vanning, and he nearly fell. But the shock, though agonizing, wasn’t permanent. Legs afire, the detective rounded the ship’s bow and saw a circular hole gaping in the corroded hull.
He flung himself toward it. Through a crimson mist the masked face of Callahan swam into view. The man leaped out of the ship, caught up Lysla from Vanning’s arms, and scrambled with her back through the port.
As Vanning tried to follow, he saw Callahan crouching on the threshold of the valve, an odd hesitancy in his manner. One of Callahan’s hands was on the lever that would close and seal the ship. For a brief eternity the eyes of the two men met and clashed.
*
Vanning read what was clear to read. If Callahan closed the port now, leaving Vanning outside—he would be safe from the law. No doubt the man knew how to pilot a space-ship—
A shout roared out from behind Vanning. Callahan snarled an oath, seized the detective’s hand, and yanked him into the ship. As a Swamja tried to scramble through the valve, Callahan’s foot drove viciously into the monster’s hideous face, sending him reeling back among his fellows.
Then the port clanged shut!
The port clanged shut, and the sudden silence of the ship was nerve-shattering in its instant cessation of sound.
Vanning managed to get to his feet. He didn’t look at Callahan. Lysla, he saw, was still motionless. Hobbs was kneeling beside her.
"Lysla—she all right?" the detective rasped.
"Yes." Hobbs managed a weak grin. "She got in the way of a paralyzing charge—but she’ll be all right."
"Okay." Vanning turned to the controls. They were archaic—in fact, the whole design of the ship was strange to him. It had been built a century ago, and rust and yellow corrosion was everywhere.
"Think it’ll blast off?" Callahan asked as Vanning dropped into the pilot’s seat.
"We’ll pray! Let’s see how much fuel—" He touched a button, his gaze riveted on a gauge.
The needle quivered slightly—that was all.
Callahan didn’t say anything. Vanning’s face went gray.
"No fuel," he got out.
There was a clanging tumult at the port, resounding from the outer hull.
"They can’t get in," Callahan said slowly.
"We can’t raise the ship," Vanning countered. "When we’ve used up all the air in here, we’ll suffocate. Unless we surrender to the Swamja."
Hobbs gave a croaking laugh. "Not likely. There aren’t any weapons here. The ship’s been stripped clean."
Callahan said, "If we could break through the dome—"
"There might be enough fuel for that—if it hasn’t deteriorated. But then what? We’d crash. Certain death. You know that."
Vanning clicked another button into its socket. "Let’s see if the visi-plate works."
It did. On a panel before him a dim light glowed. It gave place to a picture, clouded and cracked across the middle. They could see the square, with the Swamja swarming into it in ever-increasing numbers, with the twisted buildings rising in the background, and the tower-tube shining far away.
Vanning caught his breath. "Listen," he said. "There’s still a chance. A damned slim one—"
"What?"
The detective hesitated. If he took time to weigh this mad scheme, he knew it would seem utterly impossible. Instead, he snapped, "Brace yourselves! We’re taking off for a crash landing!"
Callahan looked at Vanning’s set, haggard face, and whirled. He picked up Lysla’s limp body and braced himself in a corner. Zeeth and Hobbs did the same. Before any of them could speak, Vanning had swung the power switch.
He was praying silently that there was still a little fuel left in the chambers, just a little, and that it would still work. His prayer was answered instantly. With a roaring thunder of rocket-tubes the life-boat bulleted up from the ground!
The bellow died. There was no more fuel.
Vanning stared at the visi-plate. Beneath him the city of the Swamja was spread, the elfin lights glimmering, the coral palaces twisted like strange fungus growths. Automatically his hands worked at the corroded guide-levers that controlled the wind-vanes on the ship’s hull.
The space-boat circles—swept around—
The shining tower-tube loomed directly ahead. Jaws aching, teeth clenched, Vanning held steady on his course. The ship thundered down with wind screaming madly in its wake.
The tube loomed larger—larger still. It blotted out the city. One glimpse Vanning had of the metal surface rising like a wall before him—
And the ship struck!
Rending, ripping, tearing, the space-boat crashed through the tube, bringing it down in thundering ruin. Briefly the visi-plate was a maelstrom of whirling shards. Then the glare of an elf-light raced up to meet the ship.
It exploded in flaming suns within Vanning’s brain. He never knew when the ship struck.
V
He looked up into Zeeth’s eyes. Blood smeared the Venusian’s fat face, but he was smiling wanly.
"Hello," Vanning said, sitting up.
Zeeth nodded. "The others are all right. Still unconscious."
"The crash—"
"Hobbs has a broken arm, and I cracked a rib, I think. But the ship’s hull was tough."
Vanning stood up. His eyes was caught by the movement on the visi-plate, which had incredibly survived the shock of landing. He moved forward, bracing himself against the back of the pilot’s chair.
The city of the Swamja lay spread beneath him. The ship had lodged itself high on one of the towers, smashing its way into a sort of cradle, and then rolling down till its bow faced north. In the distance the jagged metal of the tube stood up forty feet above ground level. The rest of it wasn’t there, though gleaming, twisted plates of metal lay here and there in the streets.
And through the