But Planter had dived yet again. The fresh blood obscured his passage as before. He came up, panted for air, and seized the limp wrist of Max. As he kicked away for shore, he heard the whine and splat of a missile.
The Skygors were shooting at him.
He bobbed under, bringing Max with him. As he fought through the water, he felt his friend quiver and beat with his hands. He felt fierce joy. Max was alive, he too, would escape. He had to come up.
“Duck down, Planter,” Max told him at once. “They’re going to give us another volley.”
His voice was suddenly intelligent, his words sensible and articulate. Planter took the advice, swam forward again.
“Shore’s that way,” said Max, when they came up. “Can you make it? Give me your hand.”
The ex-pugilist was climbing over a tangle of roots, to solid ground at last. Planter made shift to follow him.
“What—happened—” Planter barely whispered.
Max laughed, very cheerfully. “What a wallop that sea-elephant has! I guess it knocked my senses back into me. Another belt dizzied me back on Earth. So it’s logical that—”
Yes, logical. … Max was no longer a dim, stupid child in a big man’s body.
Planter felt himself weakening. He had fought himself out. Even as he turned toward the jungle, he stumbled and fell, rolled over on his back.
He could see the whole surface of the water-city. Skygors were coming in throngs to recapture him, crowded aboard their inflated boats, or swimming. For ahead of them, something like an awful goblin was scrambling out—the mighty freak he and Max had dodged up to now. It stood erect on powerful, awkward legs, its eyes probing here and there to pick up the trail of its prey.
Planter tried to tell Max to run, but his strength and breath were spent. He could only lie and watch. Max had torn up a kind of sapling, whirled it aloft like a club. The tottering colossus approached them, heavily and grimly. It grinned relentlessly, its bloody muzzle opened and slavered.
Out of the jungle moved another figure. A smaller Skygor? No—Mara!
She sprang across the prostrate form of Planter. He managed to rise to an elbow, just as she planted herself in the way of the oncoming destruction. It loomed high above her, paws lifted to seize and crush her. But she had lifted her crossbow.
Pale fire flashed. The string hummed. At a scant five feet of distance she slammed a pen-missile full into the thing’s immense chest.
It staggered back from her, its face gone into a terrible oversize mask of awful pain. Those great legs, like dark, gnarled stumps, bowed and bent. It fell uncouthly, supported itself on spread hands. Planter could see the hole Mara had burned in it, a great red raw pit the size of a bushel basket. Then it was down, motionless. Dead.
Max had helped Planter up. “Can you run?” he was demanding.
“No! No!” Mara interposed, hurrying back to them. “Not run! Fight!”
“Fight?” Planter echoed, rather idiotically.
“Fight the Skygors! See, your friends have come!”
Through the jungle to the water’s edge pressed other human figures, in Terrestrial overalls and helmets.
A slim, square-faced man in the neatest of overall costumes had grabbed Planter’s elbow. It was beginning to rain again. Thunder sounded, like Skygors grumbling high in the mist. “Quick!” said the square-faced man. “You’re Planter, aren’t you? And that other man—but where’s Disbro.”
Planter pointed toward the water-city. “Who are you?” he demanded, as if they had all day.
“Dr. Hommerson. Commanding this new expedition. Ten of us in the big new ship started when they reported you landing safely. We cracked up, not far from where your ship bogged down. This girl found us, said—”
“Whatever she said was true!” cut in Planter. “Quick, defend yourself against those Skygors.”
“They’ll defend themselves against us,” rejoined Dr. Hommerson bleakly. “If they’re smart, and if they’re lucky.”
His companions had formed a sort of skirmish line among the thickest stems at the water’s edge. With a variety of weapons—force-rifles, machine guns, one or two portable grenade throwers—they had opened on the Skygors.
The amphibian dwellers in the water-city had started to chase Planter and Max, but the destruction of their giant kinsman had daunted and immobilized them. Now they had something else to shake their courage, which was never too great. Well-aimed shots were picking them off, in the boats, in the water, on the housetops and bridges.
“Don’t show yourselves more than is necessary!” Dr. Hommerson was barking. “If they know there’s only a handful of us, they might—” He unlimbered a patent pistol, one with a long barrel, a magazine of fourteen rounds in the stock, and a wooden holster that could fit into a slot and form a makeshift butt like that of a rifle. Lifting this to his shoulder, he began to shoot at such of the Skygors as still showed themselves.
Mara had rushed to Planter’s side. “They’re retreating!” she cried. “The spell—remember the spell!”
True enough, he’d forgotten. That wild, unmanning storm of noise that defended Skygor country, that had knocked him into their webbed fingers as a captive and slave, might begin at any moment. Even now the Skygors were retiring inside their buildings, but with a certain purposeful orderliness. As Planter watched, Max ran up to his other side.
“She’s telling the truth. I know all about that thing they sound off,” he said breathlessly in his new, knowing voice. “When I was with Disbro—working for him—I had a look at it.”
“Stop your ears,” Mara was bidding. “Quick! A rag from your garment will do!”
She ripped away part of Planter’s shirt, tore the piece in two, and thrust wads into his ears with her forefinger. Max was plugging his own ears. Then the sound began.
When it began, nobody could say. Suddenly, it was there, filling space with itself as though it were a crushing solid thing.
Planter, even with his ears partially muffled, almost collapsed. His body vibrated as before in every fiber, only not unendurably. He saw Max
