The roof came down! He was seen and heard no more!
Outside the inferno, the sub commander stared at Mac and Josh and Sangaman. His hand went for his gun. But only rested on the butt. He was drained — crushed — as any fanatic is when the thing he lives for has been taken away. He only stood there, shoulders drooping, legs wide apart as if barely able to support his sagging weight.
And then his hand left his gun.
“Of what use to kill these three?” he mumbled thickly. “The thing is done, now. It means nothing. Nothing at all has meaning.”
He stood that way, staring emptily at the three men who were recovering from the white death, for a long time. For so long a time that one of the crew coughed diffidently, to remind him that there were orders to be given.
The foreign naval officer straightened a little.
“We shall not stay here needlessly. The fire may draw someone. March south, down the coast, to the first town. We shall radio New York from there, and have the transport pick us up— Though I think that suicide may be the better move for me in the end.”
They filed off through the woods without a backward glance, each pair of shoulders bowed as though with a crushing load. Though their only burden was shattered dreams of swift, vast conquest.
And The Avenger came from behind a nearby tree, in his swift, noiseless glide. As he came, he sheathed Mike. Had the captain gone ahead and drawn that gun, Benson would have been forced to break his rule and kill.
“Chief!” whispered Mac, sitting up a little. “We thought— How on earth did ye—”
The Avenger’s dead face turned toward the blazing embers which was all that was left of the shed.
“There was a refrigerator in there,” he said. “It was big enough, with the trays out, to hold my body. Refrigerators, of course, are insulated. Fronted against the rear wall with the open door, it protected me like an insulated white shell till I could cut through with Ike.”
He patted the special-steel throwing knife at his left calf. But words and move were absent, empty.
The fire lit up his wax-dead face and white hair. Fire that was saving nations from immediate war. The Avenger had succeeded in the greatest venture yet. But as always, success brought no content to his pale and awful eyes. He did not work for content. He knew that was impossible. He worked only to avenge the memory of his wife and daughter, killed by such scum as these — and for whose deaths all other scum should pay.