as desperate as his own, and who had not been weakened by
a solar plexus blow or a cramping wait of hours in one position: the
American had passed through an eternity of physical and mental agony
when Istafiev, hunching up, strained the finger of his right hand
upward, searching for the gun trigger.

One stubby finger found it. Istafiev grunted. The gun trembled from
the force of the hands disputing its direction; then its ugly snout,
stuck out parallel to the floor, and began to creep slowly downwards
as Istafiev bore on it with all his might.

"So!" he hissed. "It was clever, your little game, but it iss
finished!"

But Chris, undermost, had braced his elbow on the floor. The gun held.
Every ounce of his strength went into holding that one position, into
keeping the weapon's muzzle away; he was therefore not prepared for
Istafiev's sudden strategy.

There was a quick pull, a tug. Istafiev had wrenched himself over,
reversing their positions and dragging Chris uppermost--and, as the
American's balance was destroyed, the gun whipped up and fired.

A bullet sang past his head. It missed by inches. But from behind came
a sound as of rending cloth. The glassy dome above the cage of the
machine had splintered into countless fragments.

The effect was amazing. The shafts of light from the machine's tube
ceased; creamy liquid dribbled out from the cracked dome, and, as it
met the air, frothed into billows of dense gray smoke. In seconds, the
room was choked with a thick, foggy vapor that obscured every object
in it as well as the blackest of moonless nights.

* * * * *

Istafiev had not fired again, could not. With a quick, frantic wrench
and twist Chris had knocked the gun from his hand, and it had
slithered away, now lost in the bunching smoke. But Istafiev's other
hand, steel-ribbed with tense muscles, had darted like a snake into
the American's throat, and under that iron, relentless grip Chris was
weakening. His head was whirling; the old wound throbbing waves of
nausea through him. Desperately he tried to struggle loose, flailing
with his legs--but useless. He knew he was slipping; slipping....

Then, out of the gray, all-hiding mist, came a voice.

"Istafiev! Where are you? Call! The machine's broken; I'm out and
invisible. Where is the American?"

Kashtanov!

Istafiev hissed:

"It iss all right. He will be finished in a moment. But you--go! The
box iss aboard the plane;