They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.
"Gravity should not act this way, Click."
"Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that--it's Gunther! No
wonder we fell so fast--we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!
Gunther'd do anything to--did I say _anything_?"
Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his hand
came up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievable
horrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts with
numerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, some
tubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing along
in the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.
Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat broke
cold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmed
after him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, in
Click's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurt
the creatures at all.
"Irish!" Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an incline
toward the mouth a small cave. "This way, fella!"
Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. "They're
too big; they can't get us in here!" Click's voice gasped it out,
as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.
Instinctively, Hathaway added, "Asteroid monsters! My camera! What a
scene!"
"Damn your damn camera!" yelled Marnagan. "They might come in!"
"Use your gun."
"They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,
eh, Click?"
"Yeah. Sure. _You_ enjoyed it, every moment of it."
"I did that." Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. "Now, what
will we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?"
"Let me think--"
"Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact."
* * * * *
They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway felt
funny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monsters
and Gunther and--
"Which one will you be having?" asked Irish, casually. "A red one or a
blue one?"
Hathaway laughed nervously. "A pink one with yellow ruffles--Good God,
now you've got _me_ doing it. Joking in the face of death."
"Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck."
That didn't please the photographer. "I'm an Anglo-Swede," he pointed
out.
Marnagan shifted uneasily. "Here, now. You're doing nothing but
sitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so take
me a profile shot of the beasties and myself."
Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. "What in hell's the use? All
this swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it."
"Then," retorted Marnagan, "we'll develop it for our own benefit; while
waitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to our
rescue!"