"Well--that can't be helped. Lysla, you go with Callahan."
The blue eyes blazed. "No! It'll take all of us to manage the guards.
I'm fighting with you."
Vanning grunted. "Well--here. Take the gun. Use it when you get a
chance, but be careful. Zeeth? Hobbs? Ready?"
The two men nodded silently. With a hard grin on his tired face,
Vanning gave the signal and followed the disguised Callahan as he
walked toward the ship. Maybe the guards wouldn't take alarm at sight
of one of their own race, as they thought. But the masquerade couldn't
keep up indefinitely.
The sentries looked toward the newcomers, but made no hostile move. One
of them barked a question. Callahan didn't answer. He kept lumbering
toward the ship, his masked face hideous and impassive. Vanning, at
his heels, was tense as wire. Beside him, he heard Zeeth breathing in
little gasps.
Twenty paces separated the two parties--fifteen--ten. A guard croaked
warning. His hand lifted, a gun gripped in the malformed fingers.
Simultaneously Lysla whipped up her weapon and fired. Once--twice--and
the Swamja cried out and dropped his gun, pawing at his eyes. Then--
"Let 'em have it!" Vanning snarled--and sprang forward. "Callahan! Get
that port open!"
* * * * *
The masked figure hesitated, gave a whispered sound that might have
been a curse, and then sprinted around the side of the space-ship.
Vanning didn't see him. His shoulder caromed into the middle of the
second guard, and the two went down together, slugging, clawing,
kicking.
The Swamja was incredibly strong. His mouth gaped at Vanning's throat.
With an agile twist, the detective wrenched himself away, but by that
time there was a gun leveled at his head. A wave of blazing agony
blasted through Vanning's body--and was instantly gone. The weapon had
not been turned up to the killing power.
The Swamja twisted the barrel with one finger, making the necessary
adjustment. But Vanning hadn't been idle. His hands crossed over the
gun, wrenched savagely. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the
Swamja croaked in agony, his fingers broken.
He wasn't conquered--no! Ignoring what must have been sickening
pain, he threw his arms around Vanning and squeezed till the breath
rushed from the human's lungs. The detective felt himself losing
consciousness. It was impossible to break that steel grip--
Once more the fangs gaped at his throat. Vanning summoned his waning
strength. His left hand gripped the monster's lower jaw, his right hand
the upper. Sharp teeth ripped his fingers. He did not feel them, nor
the foul, gusting breath that blew hot on his sweating face.
He wrenched viciously, dragging the creature's mouth wide open--and
wider yet!
A hoarse roar bubbled from the Swamja's throat. There was a sharp
crack, and the malformed body twisted convulsively. The mighty arms
tightened, nearly breaking Vanning's back. Then--they relaxed.
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.
[Illustration: _Vanning sprinted forward, scooped up the girl, swerved
back, and fired the full blast of his gun into the screaming face of
the first Swamja._]
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."