“There’s a guard at the Master’s office door,” Lucy whispered, peering outside.
“There is?” Buck clenched his fists. “I’ll deal with him. Follow me.”
Unarmed as he was, and knowing there was, no retreat now they had come thus far, he stepped out boldly and advanced. The guard instantly leveled his atom-gun.
“Business?” he asked curtly.
“Urgent,” Buck replied, still on the move. “You’d better see these papers. There are some records in the Master’s office that I have permission to get. See—”
He fumbled in his overalls and unconsciously the guard watched the moving hand. The next thing he knew was that the other hand, bunched into a fist, had lashed a smashing left-hook under his chin. He gulped and his head snapped back to a sharp angle. Before he could attempt to recover the right hand whipped upwards and then descended in a fist on the back of his neck. He flattened knocked out.
“Okay,” Buck called, heaving the unconscious man to one side. “Coast’s clear for the moment.”
Still hanging on to Lucy, Clem hurried forward; then Buck swore under his breath as he tried the Master’s office door. It was locked, and made of solid metal so no shoulder heaving could possibly break it open.
“Only one answer,” Buck said, and from the floor he picked up the atom-gun that the guard had dropped.
“That’s going to ruin the lock when we want to barricade ourselves in,” Clem pointed out.
“Maybe so, but it’s a better alternative than being shut out here, isn’t it? The mob’ll be after us the moment they dare to risk it.”
He fired the gun into the lock and the third shaft of intolerably bright energy did the trick. Clem hurtled straight into the office and brought up sharp against the desk. Instantly Buck and the girl followed him, then Buck closed the door and used the atom-gun again to fuse frame and door into one solid piece down the opening side.
“May hold,” he said, “We’ll live in hope! Our best place at the moment seems to be the window. We can watch what’s happening.”
They moved to it, and for Lucy at least, it was a dizzying experience to gaze down into that two-thousand-foot canyon, of steel and stone and see the main street below like a ribbon amidst the smaller buildings.
“There they come!” Buck exclaimed suddenly, pointing to the left. “Swarms of ’em! Like ants on a strip of tape.”
His simile was very accurate. In silence Lucy and Clem watched the hordes swelling along the white roadway, plainly heading in the direction of this headquarters building. At this great height, and with the windows closed, there were no sounds, but presumably the mob was shouting for vengeance if their wild, surging movements were any guide.
“I’d give anything at this moment for a stack of bombs,” Buck muttered, glancing angrily around him.
Clem shrugged. “And what good would that do?”
“Good? Probably save us. I’ve no illusions about being able to stick in this office indefinitely.”
“Neither have I,” Clem answered. “Which means we might as well do what we can whilst we are here. Where’s that recording machine?”
He hurried across to the desk and looked at the recording instrument. A full reel of tape was on the take-up spool and, as far as could be judged, was the one that had recorded the interview with the Master. Quickly Clem laced the free end of the tape back on the empty spool and then set the machine in reverse until the tape was back at its start-ting point. A preliminary test satisfied him that it was the interview.
“And how far does that get us?” Buck asked, watching. “Nobody here to listen except us. It’s the people who ought to hear it. Some of them might believe it. However, it can’t be done until they break in here, and by that time I fancy they’ll be too fighting mad to listen to anything!”
“They can hear it before they break in here,” Clem replied quickly, studying the various instruments on the huge desk. “Here’s a direct transmission radio, used only by the Master, I suppose, but according to the meter readings it is tuned to all public speakers— Yes, that ought to do it, providing the power is permanently on.”
He switched on the apparatus, then when the pilot-light glowed he spoke into the microphone. Apparently nothing happened.
“Can’t tell whether this works or not,” he said quickly glancing up. “Buck, open the ventilator shaft at the top of the window there: it will enable me to hear my voice in the city if the speakers are working.”
Buck promptly obeyed, studying the still surging mob as he did so. The moment the ventilator opened the noise of the people floated up in an. indistinguishable blur of sound, but a second or two later it was completely swamped by Clem’s own vastly amplified voice thundering through the public loudspeakers.
“Attention all listeners! Attention to a special broadcast on the wavelength of the late Master!”
“Keep it up!” Lucy exclaimed excitedly, peering below. “The mob’s halted and is listening for what comes next.”
Clem switched on the recorder and the playback voices spoke into the microphone and thence relayed themselves to every public loudspeaker in the city and surrounding districts. Little by little the entire interview with the Master was given, ending at the point where he had decided he must search the records.
“There it is!” Clem cried. “Believe it or otherwise, but that is a genuine record of what happened. Surely now you can see that the Master was not abducted or murdered? He died as I told you — of extreme old age!”
Clem ceased announcing and hurried to the window to join Buck and the girl in watching the scene below. From the look of things the people were discussing amongst themselves what they should do next — then the attention of the trio was suddenly diverted by the sight of heli-jet planes hurtling towards the headquarters building. Apparently they had come from the space-airport a quarter of a mile distant.
“Now what?” Buck looked above, his eyes narrowed. “Are these devils trying to get at us from the sky as well as the ground?”
“No idea,” Clem muttered, “but they’re certainly headed this way.”
Anxiously he, Buck and Lucy watched. The jet planes circled for a few moments, then they made a swift dive to the roof of the headquarters building and landed on the immense flat space. Presumably they did so, at least. From their angle at the window the trio could no longer detect what had happened.
“They’re coming on again below,” Lucy said, her voice dispirited. “Evidently they don’t believe what you told them Clem—”
She broke off at a sudden battering din upon the office door.
“Those from the jet planes,” Buck snapped. “A quicker way than coming by the lift. It’ll take ages for the mob to get up here anyway— “You’re wasting your time!” he yelled, as the hammering on the door continued. “We’re not coming out and the door’s sealed.”
“It’s me, Buck!” a voice shouted. “Get the door open, can’t you? We can’t leave you in there—”
“The boys!” Buck gasped, surprised. “I’d forgotten all about them— Blast the door open if you’ve got your blast-guns!” he shouted. “We’ll stand clear.”
There was an interval of a moment or two, then a burning redness appeared in the center of the metal door. It quickly changed to white and at last the metal itself began to run like melting butter before the terrific heat of the blast-gun the chief engineer was using. The moment a hole large enough had been made he clambered through into the office, avoiding the searingly hot sides of the opening.
“In you come, boys,” he called, and the rest of the men followed him, bringing the heavy blast-guns on their broad shoulders.