"Don't worry," he assured her; "I won't get hurt."
After he had seen them within the liner, he got to work. First he
brought out from the ship coils of wiring and jumbles of instruments.
He took them over to the edge of the Gorm, to the place where he had
seen Miro pull the switch, and for the next ten minutes was busy
connecting wires, attaching batteries, putting his instruments in
place. Then, when he was satisfied that everything was ready, he
reversed the switch. The great space-ship, some fifty feet away, was
already trembling in every line.
Just as he was rising to sprint for the slowly moving liner, he heard
a smooth rushing noise. He whirled. The slide was opening in the wall.
A mob of Ganymedans were pouring through. They paused uncertainly a
moment, then, as they spied him, there was a concerted rush forward.
Grant acted quickly. Already the space-ship was off the ground,
soaring upward. He had not an instant to spare. He dove toward it. The
mob yelled, and raced forward to cut him off. His pencil-ray was
useless--the distance was too great for its limited range. But then,
that applied equally to the weapons of the Ganymedans.
* * * * *
The blue rays snapped forward at him angrily, but fell short. The ship
was moving faster now. It was already several feet off the ground.
Grant's heavy space-suit impeded his progress. The charging Ganymedans
were dangerously close now. That last beam had missed him by inches.
The ship was gathering speed. He was five feet away from the open
air-lock when they got the range. A sharp searing pain right across
his shoulder. The creatoid material of his suit was cut away as with a
knife. A layer of flesh lay exposed. The skin had been whiffed into
nothingness.
But that very instant he was leaping off the ground with a mighty
effort. The ship was going upward with a rush now. His fingers clawed
desperately at the edge of the air-lock. For one breathless instant he
clung; then, to his horror, the smooth creatoid covering refused to
hold. Slowly he slipped, in spite of every effort, as the surface of
the hull refused purchase to his bleeding hands, then down he went
with a thud.
A cry of triumph arose from the onrushing Ganymedans as Grant
scrambled to his feet, bruised and shaken. He cast a swift, despairing
glance upward. The huge liner was a hundred feet up now, gathering
speed swiftly. To one side was the Gorm, a place of dread and menace.
The gloating enemy were almost upon him. Even the comfort of a weapon,
the grim satisfaction of taking some of his foes to death with him,
was denied him.
The pencil-ray had been jarred out of his hand by the impact and had
doubtless fallen into the Gorm.
Grant felt that he had come to the end of the rope. There was no
tremor of fear in him, only regret that he had met the girl and lost
her so soon. What would she do, out in space, alone with Miro? No time
to think of that now, though. The foremost of the Ganymedans were
almost upon him. They intended taking him alive, did they? He braced
himself for the attack, ready to go down fighting.
* * * * *
Then a brilliant plan beat suddenly upon his dazzled mind. It was
breath-taking, so simple, yet so desperate did it appear. If it
worked--he would win through. If not--but Grant dismissed that thought
quickly; one form of death was no worse than another.
Without an instant's hesitation, he whirled and jumped as high as he
could--directly over the Gorm! There was a yell of astonishment from
the Ganymedans--one had already clutched at his intended victim--as
they fell back in horror from the edge. This Earthling was mad to
brave the terrors of the Gorm!
But Grant heard nothing. He was instantly conscious of a searing,
racking pain that penetrated his every fiber. He forced his eyes
upward, anywhere but beneath him. Was his theory correct, or was he
destined to drop into the fiery lake. For a single interminable
instant, he suffered untold agonies.
Then his body quivered, and he felt an unmistakable push against him.
He was moving upward, just as he had hoped. The Gorm was repelling
him, even as it had the ship.
Faster and faster he shot up, chasing the liner. Would he catch up
with it? He strained his eyes. Exultation flooded through him as he
realized that the distance was rapidly lessening between them. The
added impetus of his leap over the Gorm had given him the required
extra fillip of speed. By now, rays were streaking by him.
Soon he was directly underneath. For an instant he had a quick fear
that he might overshoot his mark. But no--he was sliding past the open
air-lock. He threw himself sideways and caught at it. This time his
fingers held.
As he squirmed and wriggled into the lock, they were already careening
into the orange tube through the red swirling clouds. There was no
longer any air. Choking, he managed with numbed fingers to screw his
helmet on. Then, closing the lock, he proceeded into the ship.
Nona was guarding her prisoner vigilantly. Miro sat there, sullen,
defiant. Her glad, welcoming cry filled Grant with a new strange
warmth.
"I was so afraid for you when the ship started and you didn't show
up," she said, "but I didn't dare leave him alone." She indicated
Miro.
"Good girl," he said admiringly. "We'll bind him now and then I want
to show you something."
* * * * *
They stood a little later at the bow quartz port-hole. Down the long
shaft through which they had risen they saw the glaring flame of the
Gorm. As they looked, its regular pulsations turned irregular: it
leaped and splashed as though it was a stormy, choppy sea. Then it
gave one final mighty heave, and the universe seemed to shatter
beneath them. The "walls" of the shaft collapsed about them and they
were enswathed in a raging storm of red clouds.