Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. A
gasp of relief escaped the wounded man.
"Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,
man--where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!"
"W-where," faltered Isobar feebly, "is _what_?"
"The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possibly
make it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,
and--" Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. "You
don't have one! You're here _alone_! Then you didn't pick up our call?
But, why--?"
"Never mind that," snapped Isobar, "now!" Placid by nature, he could
move when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of their
peril. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying action
against their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weapons
were useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporary
way of staving off disaster. "Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up you
go! Give him a lift, Brown--There! That's the stuff!"
He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafy
sanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost bough
when a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneath
his clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scant
inches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.
The Graniteback was _not_ a climber. It was far too ungainly, much too
weighty for that.